


The Rule of Transformation

by JumpingJackFlash



Category: Homestuck, The Black Company
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Cryptography, Espionage, Humanstuck, M/M, Mentions of Character Death, Power Imbalance, Sleeping with the enemy, True Names, codebreaking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:39:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 41
Words: 78,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JumpingJackFlash/pseuds/JumpingJackFlash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three dark mage-kings known as the Sea Lords, the Orphaner and his two sons, hold the world in an iron grip. The reincarnation of an ancient hero known as the Sufferer leads a rebellion against their power. For all the blood and magic spilled, it seems the world will be at war forever.</p><p>Rebel spymaster Sollux Captor is kidnapped by one of the Sea Lords to break a puzzling code. He's sure his fate is interrogation and death, or worse. But the lines between friend and foe are less clear than they seemed, and his captivity may have placed him in the perfect position to turn the tide.</p><p>[inspired by the world of the 'Black Company' series by Glen Cook; you don't need to be familiar with it to understand this story.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Eye of the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> this is an inspired-by rather than a crossover. i've ganked the magic system, some terminology, and some of the plot setup. i've also made some superficial parallels -- Sollux for Croaker, Eridan for the Lady, etc. -- but didn't let myself get too locked into them. mostly, i just noticed how much the Ancestors' titles in Homestuck resemble the Taken's titles in The Black Company, and ran with it.
> 
> please don't be intimidated if you haven't read the Black Company books. just think of it as a random fantasy AU with much better worldbuilding than i could've done from scratch. :D
> 
> please note: although i haven't used the 'graphic violence' or 'noncon' warnings, there will be fighting at some point, and there are some elements of magical compulsion that may set off sensitive folks' dubcon squick. if those things bother you, proceed with caution.

When you see you're going to the Storm Palace, you try to jump off the flying carpet.  
  
Mindfang laughs as she twists a fistful of your collar to hold you back. "Oh no, Sollux Captor, it's not that easy for you," she says. "If he didn't want you alive, I wouldn't have wasted a trip. You could've died at Radiant with the rest of your Rebel friends."  
  
If your stomach weren't already squirming from the carpet's flight, that reminder would put a knot or two in it. You'd managed to forget for a little while, blind to everything but your own terror. The presence of the Taken, the Orphaner's deathless minions, tend to have that effect. Mindfang is one of the worst. Instead of grabbing your collar, she could've set mental hooks into your nerves and controlled you like a puppet.  
  
Now you have to worry about your friends on top of that. Great.  
  
You have to believe they'll pull through somehow. They're bound to be losing, though. There's no way to win that battle. Karkat knew that when he led the Company into it. His intent was just to make a lot of noise, get the Empire looking in that direction while Rider and his battalion snuck up on Kingvale to the north. He succeeded far too well, is the problem. The city of Radiant turned out to be more important to the Empire's strategy than he'd realized, and both Mindfang and Darkleer arrived to defend it.  
  
You wish you were back on that hellish battlefield. You're sure they're managing an orderly retreat; Karkat is a hell of a leader when he gets serious. Retreat is not an option you have. You know too much, and in a matter of perhaps only minutes, the Orphaner will know it all too. There are things worse than death, and you're pretty much guaranteed to experience one or two of them.  
  
But even with the Storm Palace looming up from below, you find you want to live. Even if Mindfang wasn't still holding your collar, you doubt you could make yourself try again to jump.  
  
No, damn it, you're not that selfish. If your information falls into Imperial hands -- "Drop me in the ocean," you beg. "Slit my throat. I'll make it worth your while. I'll tell you something no one else knows, it'll give you a clear advantage over --"  
  
"You're asking _me_ for mercy, Rebel?" she sneers. "That blind witch of yours killed my sister."  
  
You sneer right back. "Yeah, well, your sister killed _my_ sister, so on a scale of one to indifferent as the vast cosmos, I don't give a shit."  
  
The look she gives you is pure venom, and you hope/fear for a moment that you've succeeded in making her mad enough to kill you.  
  
"I could make you bite your own fingers off," she muses.  
  
You can take a hint. You face forward and shut your trap.  
  
The Storm Palace is a vast ship, built as much of spells as wood. It travels in the eye of a perpetual hurricane, into which only the Orphaner's fleet dares to venture. You've heard stories of its immensity, but at first it seems merely big, maybe the size of two or three grain barges laid end to end.  
  
Then a gull flies below the carpet, tiny as a gnat, and you realize how high up you still are.  
  
Your perspective shifts dizzyingly. A circular shape you thought was a capstan is actually a domed building. What you thought was light chop resolves into waves tall enough to swamp a fishing boat. The ship is so colossal it horrifies you. Nothing that massive should float. Each one of its twelve purple sails could smother a cathedral. Where, you wonder, did they find that much purple dye in the whole world? Entire species of sea snails must've gone extinct to color all that canvas.  
  
Mindfang lands you near the top of the vertiginous ziggurat of decks that rises amidships. Imperial soldiers rush to secure the carpet. Mindfang ignores them, striding away without even bothering to tell you to follow. She doesn't really have to. You know that if you tried to run, she'd stop you, and this time she wouldn't do it by catching your collar.  
  
You dog her heels through corridors as high and wide as those in any landbound palace. Cloth-of-gold hangings and amethyst lamps suggest you're in the Orphaner's own residence. So much for hoping you might be turned over to ordinary torturers for ordinary questioning.  
  
"You like tweaking the Orphaner," you try desperately, "I know you do. You could be careless with me, I could have an accident. That'd piss him off. You could make me walk the plank."  
  
She chuckles without turning.  
  
"It's no thecret, everybody knowth." You bite your tongue in your haste, and taste blood. Your childhood lisp tends to come back under stress. Mindfang is still ignoring you, and you're approaching a frighteningly final-looking set of doors. Carved rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl -- those doors obviously don't just lead to another corridor. You keep trying anyway. "I'm not that important, really. Why not take the chance to make him mad?"  
  
At last she glances back. Her grin is chilling. "I am," she says, and flings the doors open.  
  
Your knees turn to jelly. Mindfang has to march you forward like a marionette, because on your own you simply cannot approach the cloaked and crowned figure silhouetted against the far windows of the gallery.  
  
Power fills the room like the smell of ozone. You met the Orphaner once, before you joined the Rebels, and the man was terrifying even when he wasn't an enemy. Now, knowing what you know, and with your allegiances what they are, you would give your eyes to be anywhere but here. You can't recall the Orphaner's face -- it was blotted from your mind, either deliberately or as a side-effect of the magic that rifled through your memory like a book -- but you remember that enchantment-heavy gold circlet with the backswept points like jags of lightning. You remember the ancient mage's oppressive presence.  
  
Bright sun shatters off the churning sea. The Orphaner is a black paper cutout against all that glaring blue. The wall of the storm's eye is a white curve in the distance, its underside darkened in soft charcoal strokes within which lightning flickers constantly. It looks inviting compared to your present situation.  
  
Mindfang puppets you right up to the window, far too close. She makes you do a little pirouette and bow. The Orphaner snorts, unimpressed.  
  
"I can keep him in hand without you pullin' his strings, you old pirate. Shove off."  
  
The voice... it's deep and drawling like the Orphaner's, it has the Orphaner's odd accent -- remnant of some language so old it's no longer spoken -- but it's not _as_ deep, and the accent is a little faded. This isn't the Orphaner after all.  
  
Which means it must be one of the Orphaner's 'sons' -- who are not sons in any normal sense, but something weirder. That's part of the too-much that you know.  
  
Mindfang tosses a remark about ingratitude over her shoulder as she leaves. You don't watch her go. You don't dare take your eyes off the man before you. Which one is this? The Prince or the Titan? _Please_ , you think, _Let it be the Titan. He'll break me like a wooden toy but he won't know what to ask me. Does the Orphaner lend his crown to the younger ones, or are there three enchanted crowns like that in the world?_  
  
"So this is the man who wrote such pretty little romances about my father," the crowned figure sneers. "You sure quit in a hurry once you met him. Bit disappointing, ain't he?"  
  
You have to swallow twice before you have enough spit to talk. "Not quite the word I'd use."  
  
The man at the window dismissively waves a long, pale hand. Your eyes are beginning to adjust; you can see that this man's fingers are more delicate than the Orphaner's were. His shoulders aren't quite as broad. He has the sort of dark-eyed ivory beauty that painters prefer for boy-heroes and martyrs. You'd guess his age at twenty, though you suspect he's as ageless as the Orphaner and you're probably off by decades. His black hair is artfully tousled, his fingers glittering with rings, his clothes a perfectly tailored study in violet silk and black velvet. He looks every inch an emperor. You have a suicidal urge to ask him who he's dolled up for, considering he'd be knocking folks flat with his aura even if he dressed like a bum.  
  
"Well, I didn't bring you here to mock you about your crush on Dad, even if it is funny as hell. I'll come straight to the point, Sollux Captor. You were the Rebels' spymaster. Now you're mine."  
  
Your heart sinks the last little way that's left for it to sink. Not the Titan, then. The Titan doesn't recruit defeated enemies, he smashes them. "You sure as hell need one," you grumble, "because this is _not_ how you turn an agent. My answer is no; now what?" Just empty bravado.  
  
"You think this is a negotiation?" The Prince smiles with just the corner of his mouth. Then he turns away.  
  
Abruptly, you find yourself outside the rosewood doors, with no memory of how you came to be there.


	2. Polite Dinner Conversation

The half dozen Imperials in the vicinity don't seem surprised to see you appear -- if you _did_ appear, and not just walk there in a daze. They surround you and herd you efficiently through a maze of decreasingly gilded hallways and stairs and into a room where they shut you in.  
  
As prison cells go, it's a pleasant one. There's a comfortable bed, a writing desk, a sturdy chair, and a window. The window looks out over the pyramid of decks and the roiling sea. It doesn't open. You have a go at it with the chair, but can't break it. The noise doesn't bring anyone to investigate, which surprises you. When you try the door, it's unlocked.  
  
There are a pair of guards in the hall outside. One gives the other a smug half-grin, as if to say, _I told you he'd try to break the window._ You set the chair down; its cracked leg gives way, and it falls over with a clatter. "I'd like a new chair, please," you say.  
  
"Sit on the bed for now," the non-grinning guard says. But when they bring you a meal a little later, they bring a new chair too. The meal is simple but good; white fish poached in butter, with a generous hunk of soft brown bread to mop up the sauce.  
  
It seems the Prince's recruitment strategy doesn't involve breaking you with deprivation. He's not courting you with opulence, either. The room and meal are the kind of quality you'd expect at an average coaching inn. They remind you of rooms and meals you used to share with your sister when the two of you were printers' apprentices, before Aradia decided she had to explore the world and you followed her because you couldn't let her go alone.  
  
There's no point getting nostalgic. Your hometown was razed to rubble the second year of the war. 'What if I'd stayed?' is an easy question to answer. What-ifs have no place in your line of work, anyway. You have more important things to think about, like what the hell the world's best-dressed wizard really wants from you.  
  
* * *  
  
The next day, you're given new clothes and instructed to bathe. You see no reason to be obstinate about it. You slept badly, with nothing to do but worry, and you're bored out of your mind. There's nothing wrong with the clothes except that the jacket has the Prince's badge sewn on the sleeve. A shark biting a lightning bolt: such humility.  
  
You wonder if, by wearing it, you'll be seen as accepting the Prince's offer. But it might give you a bit more freedom of movement in this place, so you wear it.  
  
Then you're brought back to that same windowed gallery -- at least, you think it's the same, but the furniture has changed. You vaguely remember a throne before, but now there's a table set for two, and two chairs. The Prince isn't there. You hover around for a while, thinking you might get in trouble if you make yourself at home, but you guess you're already in about as much trouble as there is. You sit. You wait.  
  
Eventually you reach to help yourself to a bread roll, and of course that's when the Prince speaks from right behind you: "Decode this for me." He reaches over your shoulder and slaps a sheaf of papers onto your plate.  
  
Startled, you drop the roll; it bounces on the papers, leaving a dot of butter grease, and falls on the floor. The Prince ignores it. He sweeps past to drop into the other chair in a weary sprawl. Stretches his long legs out before him and crosses his ankles. He isn't wearing the heavy purple cloak or the crown this time.  
  
You know, intellectually, that the Prince isn't any less dangerous just because he's shed his regalia. Still, he doesn't seem as intimidating.  
  
"Did your dad make you give it back?" you ask inanely.  
  
The Prince frowns slightly, confused. It's a very human expression. Tired and a little vulnerable. He looks like he's had a hard day. You remind yourself again that this is still the dire sorcerer who reduced the port of Union to smoking rubble almost singlehandedly.  
  
You tap your own brow to explain that you're talking about the crown. The Prince snorts and doesn't answer. "You'll have anything you need," he says instead. "I can assign assistants to help you do the calculations if that would speed the process."  
  
"Right, I'm definitely going to help you read my side's mail just because you asked." Your voice is steady, but your hand shakes a little as you set the papers aside. You don't throw them on the floor or hold them over one of the candles on the table, though you want to. You're afraid to antagonize the Prince beyond this probably-expected refusal.  
  
The Prince rolls his eyes, exasperated. "It's not a Rebel cipher, Sollux. Didn't I just imply you'll have to do a shitpile of math? _Obviously_ it ain't something where you know the key."  
  
"I won't know if you're telling the truth until I try it, and then it's in my mind whether I tell you or not."  
  
"You don't think I could a just --" He makes a broad, scooping gesture with one hand, jewels catching the candlelight. "Swiped the codes right outta your head if I wanted them?"  
  
You think that over while servants bring out the meal. You _have_ been wondering why the Prince hasn't subjected you to the same mindreading the Orphaner did to you a few years back. With every hour that passes, your information about the Rebels grows staler. But then, some of the things you know will never be obsolete. Things about the true nature of the three Sea Lords. And the True Name of one of them, though you don't know which one you have.  
  
Frankly, the sensible thing would be for the Prince to plunder your mind and then kill you.  
  
At least, if defeating the Rebels is really his priority.  
  
Once the servants are gone, you test your nascent theory. "Reading your brother's diary, are we?"  
  
The corner of the Prince's mouth twitches up. "Feel free to _find out_ , you obstinate fuckin' peasant. God, you're difficult." He makes it sound like a compliment.  
  
Damn it, he's got you. Your curiosity is your weak point. You're going to take a stab at that cipher just to see what the hell it is, and he damn well knows it.  
  
"Is that funny?" he says dryly, and you realize you must've chuckled or snorted or something.  
  
"You talk like a sailor," you dodge.  
  
"Of course I'm a sailor, idiot." He gestures to indicate the ship around you. "But don't you doubt my noble lineage for one fuckin' second."  
  
"Oh, I don't," you say, and laugh for real. The anger gathering on his brow should check you, but it only makes everything funnier. "I know exactly where you came from."  
  
"Really," he says. Soft and dangerous.  
  
 _What the hell are you doing, Sollux?_ you chide yourself. _Trying to impress him with how much you know? Now's not the time to act like a horny teenager. That's got to be a glamour anyway; nobody's really that gorgeous._ It's too late to change the subject now. Not like there's any advantage in pretending you don't know, anyway, as long as you don't mention the True Name thing.  
  
"The Orphaner split himself in three. Wanted to be in three places at once. But it didn't work, did it? You and the Titan are both just as power-hungry as he is, and almost as strong. You wouldn't let him use you as a scrying vessel or a puppet, so you became his lieutenants instead." You realize you're gripping your fork as if you could use it as a weapon, and make yourself set it down. His eyes are burning with an anger that makes you feel like an ant under a magnifying glass.  
  
"And where," he says slowly, "did you hear that?"  
  
"You're just a splinter." It's suicidal to go on like this, but you can't stop. "A copy. An _imperfect_ copy -- he wouldn't risk you being his equal."  
  
He surges out of his chair, tipping it over, and he's got you hauled up by the lapels before it hits the floor. "Who told you this, Sollux Captor?"


	3. Who Do You Confide In When You Rule the World?

He smells like salt wind and crushed orchids. His eyes are an impossible true violet -- has to be magicked, pure vanity, but god, how _bright_ \--  
  
" ** _Answer me_**." That growl goes right down your spine and digs into your belly, fills you with lust and terror and defiance, compels you in a way that is definitely magic.  
  
"I worked it out myself," you gasp. And if you can just leave it at that --  
  
" ** _How?_** "  
  
"Damn it! -- from some papers I found."  
  
" ** _Where did you find them?_** "  
  
"In the attic of a --" You break off with a yelp as he shakes you. He's had enough of your dancing around. He'll get it out of you in the end; you give it up. "The Cancer had them! Before he was Taken! I don't think he managed to decode them, it took me forever, I'm not even done myself and I'm a lot smarter than he is, and he belongs to the Titan now and he's loopy as a fucking fruit bat so I guess that's Crisis Averted for you, isn't it?"  
  
He loosens his hands and you fall into your chair, shaking. "Who have you told?"  
  
That's not a compulsion. You wonder why. "When the villain asks that, the poor asshole who answers 'nobody' turns up dead in the next scene."  
  
To your surprise, he chuckles. "Cancer _is_ loopy as a fuckin' fruit bat, ain't he? Titan screwed up with that one. I wouldn't a Taken him." He hooks his toe under his fallen chair and rights it with a flick of his foot, then falls into it.  
  
His anger is gone, his aura of power no stronger than what you suppose is his natural emanation. Which you're already getting used to; at least, being in the same room with him doesn't make you want to hide under the furniture like it did yesterday. But you have to wonder if he's using magic to amp up his sex appeal, if he's heard that you might be vulnerable to that kind of bait. Because when he shoves his hand through his hair and lets his head roll back, stretching his slender neck, it's a huge effort to think about anything but biting him. You feel stupid as a schoolboy. And that, in turn, makes you angry.  
  
"What are you doing, Prince?" you demand. "I'm not going to work against the Company or the Rebels or the Sufferer. Not even if you start me out on unrelated tasks. You can't _ease me into it_."  
  
"I wouldn't a taken you for a idealist."  
  
"I'm not. But I keep my oaths, and the Sufferer is my friend."  
  
He lifts his head to give you a curious look. "Is he really the reincarnated Sufferer? How can you tell?"  
  
You shrug. "Fuck if I know. The Rebels believe he is. That seems to get the job done. I know he's a good man. I know I won't help you fight him."  
  
"Your Company used to work for us."  
  
"And we still would, if the Orphaner hadn't turned on us. We're not the ones who broke our contract. We didn't have to be enemies, but we are, and that's not going to change just because you throw puzzles at me or --" You break off, gesturing at the table, because you can't very well finish that sentence with 'seduce me by sprawling around like a fucked-out whore'.  
  
He lifts an eyebrow. "This? It's not a fuckin' bribe, Sol. It's just food."  
  
"Yeah. Well." And now he's giving you nicknames? This is stupid. "My point is, it doesn't matter. Not even a little bit. I won't work for you."  
  
"Not even if there's somethin' out there worse than us?"  
  
You know what he's talking about. When the Orphaner and his Taken escaped the barrow where the original Sufferer imprisoned them so long ago, they left an even greater evil still sleeping. The Condesce, the mad queen who, once upon a time, nearly ruined the world. But if the Prince thinks he can use that to get around you, he can think again.  
  
"The Condesce didn't write this code," you drawl. "I'll ask again. What. Are. You. Doing."  
  
"Havin' a conversation," he says innocently. He pops a grape in his mouth and talks around it. "Ain't often I get to just chat over dinner. Leastwise not with anyone halfway sane and smarter than a puddle a piss. Titan don't count; that asshole won't talk about anything but who he fucked last and who he plans to fuck next. That gets old in a real hurry, let me tell you."  
  
For a moment, your simmering anger flares up into true rage. Is he seriously treating this like a _date_? Is this some kind of beauty-and-the-beast bullshit where he kidnapped you just to keep his bored ass company? You know you can't kill him with a fork, but it might be really satisfying to try.  
  
But there's an odd note of sincerity in the way he said all that. You can readily imagine how rarely he has the chance to just... talk to someone. And maybe you hate yourself a little for thinking it, but: the silly vignettes you wrote about the Orphaner back when the mage-king was just a distant legend, all that dreamy drivel in which you imagined him being handsome and lonely and gazing at storms... the Prince fits the role alarmingly well. The Orphaner is a raw force of nature, a grasping and destructive power, utterly self-centered and immune to insecurity. The Prince poses, he preens, he cares what people think of him, even a prisoner like you.  
  
Surely you can use that. Get him talking. Maybe he'll let something slip.  
  
"You don't have a lot of family dinners then, I guess," you prompt.  
  
He gives a bitter sneer. "Far as my so-called _father_ is concerned, I'm just a fuckin' magic item. He don't talk to me any more than I talk to my wand. And don't get me started on the Taken. They're all mad as skunks."  
  
"Mindfang seems pretty sane."  
  
" _Seems_ bein' the operative word there, Sol." And he's off like a racehorse, ranting about the Orphaner's minions as if he's been waiting his whole life to get it off his chest.  
  
He talks for hours. All you have to do is prompt him a little bit whenever he starts to run down. A lot of it is a psychopath's banal self-pity, but you can sense glimmers of truth in it here and there. Whatever the Orphaner has that armors him against self-doubt, the Prince doesn't have it, and the lack gnaws at him.  
  
He doesn't drop anything particularly important, but you do pick up some hints you might be able to work with later. He doesn't trust the Orphaner, but he wishes he could. Nobody trusts the Titan. And none of the Taken trust their masters or each other, except that you get the impression the Prince has a certain fondness for his own -- Undine and Anvil in particular -- which suggests their loyalty is more than just sorcerous compulsion. Maybe they like their jobs.  
  
He tells you outright, as a gift, that the Rebels did manage an orderly retreat yesterday, and neither side's losses were as heavy as expected. Basically, Karkat gave it up as a bad job right after you were nabbed, and Darkleer wasn't confident enough to give chase with Mindfang out of the picture. You're so relieved you want to laugh. You don't ask after your other comrades; you don't want to draw attention to them. But you visualize each of them alive and try to mean it.  
  
Joker, Karkat's self-appointed bodyguard and lunatic sidekick, made it if Karkat did. Hawkeye lived, you're certain. She's too crafty to die. And the Black Rose, well, you're not entirely sure she _can_ die; her sorcery is some pretty dark stuff, maybe as dark as the Orphaner's. Rabbit and Wolf made it for sure; they're a brother-sister team, they look out for each other the way you and Aradia used to. Wolf's just a sniper, she's not likely to piss off one of the Taken personally the way your sister did. You'd give Ripper good odds too; Karkat's careful not to waste the Company physician on mere combat. She's probably still at her needlework, stitching up yesterday's casualties, eyes glassy with fatigue, short hair sticking up in sweaty spikes, determined not to rest while anyone needs her.  
  
Flash probably died. That asshole has no sense of self-preservation and he can't follow orders for shit. But you don't like him very much, no matter how crazy Hawkeye is about him, so you're not going to give yourself an ulcer worrying about his fate.  
  
At last, when the table is thoroughly picked-over and the Prince is starting to sound hoarse, a messenger arrives to give him a paper that makes him sigh and gather himself. "I'll give you the run of the ship once that message is decoded, but not before. I don't want you getting distracted."  
  
You nod. It's a reasonable bribe.  
  
He gets up to follow the messenger out, but hesitates at the door, closes it, and turns back to you. "Thanks for listenin', Sol."  
  
For all your deductions, you're still surprised at this straightforward gratitude. "Anytime," you answer awkwardly.  
  
He leaves you alone with the coded message and the remains of dinner. You finish off the grapes while you give the papers a preliminary looking-over. This time yesterday you were sure you were going to be mindraped and then killed, or tortured, or turned into a monster. Now you're hardly afraid at all. Karkat surely ordered the codes changed as soon as you were captured, and the longer it takes for the Prince to get the old codes out of you, the less chance someone will still be using them. Hawkeye can do most of your job. She's a better agent runner than you are, she just has a hard time with data handling.  
  
This might not be a complete disaster after all.  
  
This cipher looks like it might be vulnerable to a frequency-analysis attack. You're seeing some repeating letter clusters that you're hoping aren't coincidence. Damn it, you need something to write on.  
  
The guards don't have to herd you back to your room; this time, you hurry ahead, eager to get to that desk and get started. You have to ask for scratch paper and pens, which makes you impatient. What the hell did they think the desk was _for_? When the writing supplies they bring you include a penknife, you don't even try to stab anyone with it.


	4. Sibling Rivalry

The walls of your room are covered with paper. You've used an entire box of drawing pins and sent the guards for more paper twice. It's been two days -- wait, three? you're not sure -- and you think you're making progress. You didn't ask for any assistants; they'd just slow you down. Training them to do the job would take longer than doing it yourself. Besides, this is what you love: losing yourself in the numbers, letting patterns spread out in your head, watching them change like clouds.  
  
You feel the press of power before the door opens. The delicate structure you were balancing in your mind's eye falls apart. You swallow a snarl.  
  
You decide to play it cool and not even turn around from where you're marking your latest subdivided letter count on a chart. "It's not a simple substitution. Obviously. I would've had it in a day if it was. I think they're using a symmetric-key block cipher. I'm trying to isolate the key length now."  
  
A low, warm chuckle. Impudent and gloating; predatory. It makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You turn around slowly.  
  
His eyes are half-lidded and smoldering, his lips a mocking curl. He's wearing _ohgod tight_ leather pants, and his chest and arms are tattooed so densely with sigils and runes that for a split second you thought it was a shirt, but it's not, and holy _shit that body_ , and the way he's standing, hips canted and head tilted and thumbs in his belt so that his fingertips caress his thighs -- emitting sex like a tidal wave, strong enough to knock you down --  
  
"Hello, Titan," you say hoarsely. You are pretty sure you're in serious trouble.  
  
"Hey there, Chief," he purrs.  
  
He steps toward you. You back up. You hit the wall, making papers rattle. He takes your chin in his hand; you jerk it away, but he won't let go, and shit he's strong. All you can do then is grit your teeth. He hums consideringly.  
  
"You ain't much to look at. You must be a hellcat in the sack. Or else he's got funny tastes. Is that the deal? My brother's got a thing for skinny nerds?" His fingertip traces the scar on your cheekbone. "The mismatched eye thing is kind of hot, in a weird way."  
  
"You theriouthly need to fuck off now." Hello again, stress lisp. You sound terrified. You sound like you don't mean it.  
  
"Aw, Twiggy, don't be that way. _Everybody_ wants some of this. You're gonna love it." He takes half a step back with his fingertips splayed on your chest, looking you over like he's deciding where to take the first bite.  
  
You feel like some idiotic ingenue in a cheesy play, as if you ought to be wearing a white nightgown and crying 'never!' like anyone cares. The worst thing about it isn't your helplessness; you've been helpless since you got here, really, there's no way you can compete with the kind of power these bastards have. And anyway, you've seen enough of war to get used to the idea that sometimes bad shit just happens, and sooner or later it's going to happen to you. You figured it'd be a sword in the gut or an arrow in the neck. Turns out you're going to get raped by the Prince's ink-scribbled twin. Hell, you've even got a pretty good chance of surviving it.  
  
No, the worst thing is you know you're going to _enjoy_ it, and that's going to fuck with your head.  
  
It's this glamour he's got going, some kind of want-me spell, and it doesn't matter that you know perfectly well that you _don't_ want it, that it's coercion, your body is still burning with mindless, primitive lust. It's so much worse than what the Orphaner did to you. The Orphaner just dug through your brain like a ragpicker through a trash heap; he didn't force you to _like_ it.  
  
The Titan's spread fingers run lightly down your chest, nails catching at your shirt. He licks his lips. You pry one hand away from the wall. It wants to reach for him, it wants to palm the bulge in those tight leather pants, but instead you slam it down on a pin. The head is rounded, but it's sticking out enough that it hurts when you slap it with the soft part of your palm. It clears your head just a little.  
  
"Do you always play with your brother's toys without asking?" you snap.  
  
He goes still for a moment, face blanking, and the tide of lust ebbs for a moment. You doubt refusing on your own account would've achieved anything, but this might do the trick.  
  
But then the smoldering smirk is back, and he leans in until you can feel his breath on your lips. It smells like he's been chewing cloves or something. "My brother's not here," he purrs.  
  
"That's where you'd be wrong," says the Prince's icy voice.  
  
The Titan jerks as if slapped. He spins away from you. There's a thread of purple light in the middle of the room, hovering at head-height, restlessly twisting and curling on itself. The Titan addresses it in a wheedling tone.  
  
"You don't mind sharing, do ya, Sport? There's enough Twiggy to go around."  
  
"If you're still in that room when I come in I will fuckin' dismember you." The light-thread dissolves into a cloud and vanishes.  
  
"Fine, fuck you too," the Titan snarls. He throws you a glare as if his rivalry with his brother is entirely your fault.  
  
His sex aura goes out like a snuffed candle. Now he emits nothing but seething menace. There is something very, very dark in him; you can see it looking out from behind his eyes. The same kind of darkness you felt from the Orphaner, that avarice and utter selfishness, but the Titan's is more primitive. The Orphaner hungers for power; the Titan wants to _consume_ you, one way or another. It fills you with an atavistic dread that paralyzes you, blanks your mind, leaves you shaking.  
  
"Watch your six, Doll," he says in a singsong croon that reminds you of Joker just before he starts turning skulls inside out. "I'll be around." And then he's gone, leaving the door standing open.  
  
You want to go shut it, as if it might somehow protect you. What you do instead is slide down the wall, pins and papers pattering down around you. You wrap your arms around your knees and try to breathe.


	5. The Well

It seems like hours before the Prince arrives. He stands looking down at you with a crease between his brows. The concern in his eyes looks so... _normal_ , you half expect him to ask if you're okay. He holds out a hand, waits patiently until you take it, and helps you up. After he lets go, you open and close your hand a few times, trying to rid yourself of the sensation of his skin. You feel like you don't want to touch anyone until you've had a bath or five.  
  
"I hope you're close to done," he says, glancing around at the calculations that cover the walls. "Did he say anything about these? Did he seem interested?"  
  
"Only in sexually assaulting me," you mutter. You should pick up the mess you made, but you don't want to turn your back on him.  
  
"He wouldn't have forced you. He inflames people until they grab him; it makes him feel wanted or something." The Prince's voice is heavy with contempt. "Makes them think it's their own idea, I suppose. If you'd held out, he would've decided he didn't want you anyway. I probably just complicated things by stepping in."  
  
"Why did you?"  
  
"I don't know." He pretends intense interest in one of the letter-frequency charts.  
  
You take a deep breath. "Thank you," you say clearly.  
  
He throws you a startled look.  
  
"It's not like I knew he'd stop if I didn't cave. I was scared shitless. Fine, so he's even scarier when he's _not_ brainfucking me, I don't care, you made him leave, so thank you."  
  
He turns back to the chart, but you see his adam's-apple bob, and his ears are bright red. "You're welcome." He says it like he has to work to dredge up the words, like he's not sure he remembers them right. He doesn't get thanked a whole lot. It's... kind of cute.  
  
You remind yourself that he's still the enemy. He's done some seriously ruthless shit, you've witnessed some of it yourself, his kill count might be even higher than the Titan's because he uses the kind of tactics that don't give people time to run -- but hell, you've been at war a long time, and you can't be sure you wouldn't have done the same things if you had the power. There's a streak of decency in him that you don't see in the others. Being a prisoner sucks, of course, but you're starting to be glad he's the one who got you.  
  
So, naturally, you have to push it. "He was under the impression I'm your catamite or something. What've you been telling people?"  
  
"Nothing," he snaps, and anger sparks in his eyes, but it fades the next moment. "Which lets them assume shit, I guess. You want me to introduce you to everybody? 'General So-And-So, meet Sollux Captor, the Rebel spy who's helping me get --'" He breaks off with a gesture at the papered walls. "Well. I can't even tell _you_ what I want you for yet, not if I want you to finish this."  
  
"No, I would. I know now you were telling the truth. It's not one of ours. Not one of yours either, or it wouldn't be taking me this long. My ciphers aren't vulnerable to frequency analysis, and yours only take me a few hours to break."  
  
His brows lift. "Really? I should have you design me some better ones."  
  
"Good luck with that," you drawl. "I'm still not working for you."  
  
"Except for this."  
  
"I'm still not doing anything for you that'll make life harder for the Rebels," you clarify. "I'm breaking this code because you implied it has something to do with the Condesce, and I don't want that hellbitch dug up. I'm finding out if you're being straight with me."  
  
"It might, it might not. I don't know what's in it. I just know -- like you said, it's not the Rebel's and it's not mine."  
  
It's interesting how he said 'mine' rather than 'ours'. You file that away to think on later. "Anyway, Titan knows I'm breaking code for you now. I babbled something about it when he came in, so even if he couldn't guess from all this..." You grimace. "Sorry. I thought he was you."  
  
That gets a disturbingly charming half-grin of disbelief. "You mistook him for me? _How?_ "  
  
"I had my back turned. You all feel the same to me, power-wise. When Mindfang first dragged me in, I thought you were the Orphaner until you started talking."  
  
"Well, as long as you don't think I would ever dress like a dockside thug," he chuckles.  
  
"Do you have tattoos like that under your shirt?"  
  
There's that reddening of the ears again. "None a your fuckin' business, peasant. Don't get too familiar."  
  
Teasing him is a terrible idea. So of course you can't not do it. "But what if he disguises himself as you, Prince? You're identical twins, after all. If he does a good acting job --"  
  
"Then he'd be wearing a shirt!" he yelps indignantly.  
  
"Yeah, but what if I thought it was you cozying up to me, and some clothes just happened to start coming off, and I saw all these magic tattoos, and I didn't know if that was a giveaway or not, what then?"  
  
His face is entirely red now, his purple eyes round with comical distress. "The clothes comin' off would be your clue! Holy shit, Sol, you really think I'm that kind a bastard? You're a fuckin' prisoner, you're totally in my power, it'd be downright unconscionable --" He chokes that off when you start laughing. "Fuck you, Sol. Seriously."  
  
At last you start picking up the fallen papers, still chuckling. "You remind me of Ka-- the Sufferer a little bit." Damn, you almost used his real name. He's not a magus of any kind, so it's not like his True Name can be used to steal his power, but that's still not safe to do around wizards.  
  
"You pick on him like that too?"  
  
"Constantly. All of us give each other mountains of shit every day. You're missing out, Prince."  
  
"What are you doing, trying to recruit me?" There's a little bit of a smile there now.  
  
"Sure. Wanna join the Rebellion? We don't have insane quasi-undead minions, but maybe that's a selling point. I bet our strategy meetings are a lot more fun."  
  
He stops trying to hide the smile. "Just break the cipher, Sol. Titan probably doesn't care enough to tell anyone, but still, let's not give him time to gossip. You need anything?"  
  
"A bigger penknife so I can stab him if he comes back."  
  
The Prince snickers as if you were joking, and leaves. You shrug. You get back to your calculations.  
  
* * *  
  
When you finally collapse into bed, you have a dream where it's the Prince pinning you against the wall. His kisses stun you like lightning. Under his clothes, instead of tattoos, he has a hole in his chest as deep as a well, with something tiny glowing far down in it. The harder you fuck him the brighter it burns. You thrust your arm into the hole and close your fist around something cold and slick like glass; its edges cut your palm; he cries out in ecstacy.  
  
You wake up feeling oddly proud of yourself, as if you solved something. Cleaning yourself up wakes you the rest of the way, so you light a couple candles and try to get some work done.  
  
Every so often, you catch yourself staring out the window at the distant roll of lightning and thinking about your dream. Wondering what question it was even answering.


	6. Messages Go Astray In Wartime

When you finally understand what you're looking at, you pretty much completely lose your shit.  
  
Days of frustration and fear undergo a chemical reaction, transform into anger, and explode. Anger at your helplessness and uncertainty, at your overconfidence. Anger at being shut in such a small space for so long; even when the Company was snowed in at that shitty little fort a few winters back, at least you had chores, at least there was always someone to blow off steam with. Anger at the Prince for kidnapping you, for being sexy and cordial and halfway likeable, for putting this goddamn cipher in front of you and _knowing_ you wouldn't be able to leave it alone.  
  
You're done trashing your room by the time the Prince arrives. You stand in the middle of your mess and stare at him blankly while he takes it in. The torn and crumpled paper, the scattered pins and spilled ink, the chair in three pieces, the shards of the teacup you threw at the window. He gives you a look, half annoyance and half concern, that would be funny if you weren't still furious.  
  
"It's a running key cipher," you snarl. You snatch a handful of painstakingly calculated frequencies, give the wad an extra scrunch, and throw it at his feet. "Who _is_ this asshole?"  
  
The Prince sighs. He brushes a fragment of china off the foot of the bed and sits down. "All right," he says patiently. "Lay it on me."  
  
Even his patience infuriates you. "Why the hell should I? It's not like you'd understand! Do you even know what the fuck a running key _is_? No! You do not!"  
  
"At least tell me why it made you throw a tantrum. I thought somethin' got in here and was killin' you."  
  
"So you _are_ surveilling me."  
  
"It didn't exactly take any kind a scryin' to hear shit breaking in here. I got more important things to do than watch you scribble all day, Sol. One a your guards fetched me."  
  
You can't answer. He's right, and that's not fair because you're not done being mad.  
  
He prompts with gentle exasperation, "What's a running key, and why's it mean you had to murder another chair?"  
  
Finally, your anger lets go. It's replaced by a deep gray shame that drags at your shoulders and makes your head feel heavy. You thump down on the edge of the bed, a safe arm's-length away from him. "It's a type of substitution cipher," you begin wearily.  
  
"I thought you said those were easy to crack."  
  
"Yeah, well, this is the hard kind. The easy kind, like you've been using, the whole message is coded with the same scrambled alphabet. Then there's the type I thought I was looking at, where you use a repeating keyword to rotate through multiple alphabets. I can crack those by letter frequency once I know the length of the keyword. Which is what I just spent I don't even know how long trying to do, until I finally figured out why I kept failing." You fling your arms wide to convey the vastness of your irritation. "The key is as long as the fucking message!"  
  
He takes a breath, pauses, sighs. "Oh."  
  
"Yeah," you agree. God, you just want to go to sleep.  
  
"There must be something you can do. Anything you want, Sol -- I have a dozen clerks working for me, and I can scry anything that's not nailed down --"  
  
You shake your head. That's not how it works. "I still managed to dig some information out of it," you admit. "I threw words like 'and' and 'the' at it until I found where they gave me something like plaintext, which was enough to tell me the key is also text. Which is good, because if they generated the key by rolling dice or something, we'd be shit outta luck. But that's only three letters here and there, you understand? I only knew because I was getting shit like A-S-C instead of Q-V-Z. If I tried to crack it by sitting here guessing words, it'd take me a year."  
  
"So there's the message..." He spreads one hand, then the other beside it. "And the key, which is also made of ordinary words. Right?"  
  
You nod. "Usually a book."  
  
He brings his hands together and laces the fingers. "And you add these in some way to get the coded message. You subtracted a few common words --" he sticks up his index fingers to make a steeple -- "and what was left was a fragment of the message."  
  
"I wish. No, it's a substitution, not an additive cipher. I used the letters of the common words to find which row of a letter block to decrypt the ciphertext with." Yeah, he has no idea what you just said. "It's slower."  
  
He's not discouraged, though. You guess a wizard wouldn't be; magic's at least as complicated as cryptography. "So you don't need to try to actually decode it with every book. You just need to find one where the 'and's and 'the's you found are in the right places."  
  
"If they're smart they didn't start at the beginning. And believe me, they _are_ smart."  
  
"How would they start anywhere else? How would they know?"  
  
"Agreed on beforehand? New chapter every message?"  
  
"Both parties have to have the same book, right? And they have to be identical? Which means printed, not hand-copied." He chews his thumb for a moment. The way it makes his lips pout would be distracting if you weren't so down. "They probably want a _common_ book. So if something happens to their copy they can get a new one. That narrows the field."  
  
"Sure, to _thousands_. Do you have a copy from every single large printing run in the whole empire? No. You don't. I was apprenticed to a printer as a kid, Prince, I know _exactly_ how wide that field is."  
  
He narrows his eyes. There's a long silence while he mulls something over. He gives a small nod, decision made. "Sol, I intercepted that message on its way to Redglare from my father."  
  
Your breath catches and your fingertips start to prickle. "Wow," you intone. "We are really, really dead."  
  
"He doesn't know I have it. Messages go astray in wartime. The messenger had a bad day. It happens. I need to know what Dad is up to. He's been cutting me out of the loop more and more. Me and Titan both. Titan, I can understand -- he's the kind of dog you don't let off the leash unless you want a mess made. But I'm the _good_ son," he says bitterly. "I follow orders. I never gave him a reason to doubt me. So I got suspicious. What if one of the Taken is turning him against me? What if the Condesce has her hooks in him? _I need to know_!"  
  
"Fuck," you groan. "If Titan talks..."  
  
"How could he guess what you're working on? _You_ didn't know."  
  
"But if the Orphaner is already doubting you, and he finds out you've got a Rebel crypto expert in your pocket, working on something that takes this much effort to crack --"  
  
"Then he'd just laugh at us, wouldn't he? He'd be confident you were going at it wrong. Because you were, at the time. And like I said, Dad doesn't know I intercepted that message. He doesn't know any of my people were in the area, he doesn't know I'm aware of that channel, and the messenger's accident was very convincing. Would you stop fuckin' hyperventilating over it? Anyway," he adds, "Titan wouldn't tattle. For all his faults, he's not a suck-up. Just the opposite, in point a fact." But he doesn't sound very certain about it. You stare at him, and he shifts uncomfortably.  
  
"What it boils down to," you remind him, "is I can't crack this unless I have the book."  
  
"It must be something Redglare carries with her. She was besieging Cinder Bay at the time. It's not like she could've just popped into town to find a bookseller."  
  
You shrug dispiritedly. "Even if I _was_ going to be your spymaster, which let's remember I'm _not_ , I couldn't take control of your network in time to get eyes on her before this message is long obsolete. That's all on you."  
  
"All his Taken would have the same book, right? So he can send messages to them as well? Finding out what their baggage has in common doesn't have to tip them off. Maybe I can get Titan to do it."  
  
You give a dry laugh. "I'm surprised he can even read."  
  
"Don't be a fuckin' moron, Sol. He's exactly as smart as I am. He's just also lazy, sadistic, and perpetually horny."  
  
"I've been meaning to ask you -- why are you so different? You're nothing like Titan, and neither of you is much like the Orphaner. But you're copies of him. So why aren't you the same?"  
  
He opens his mouth, then snaps it shut with a scowl. "Why don't you just go ahead and ask my True Name while you're at it?"  
  
"Yeah, what is it again?"  
  
He snorts.  
  
"Do you even have one?"  
  
The look he gives you at that scares you more than his rage that time he shook you and spelled answers out of you. Suspicion with a shot of fear. It seems you've touched a nerve. That suddenly feels like a very dangerous thing to do.  
  
"Of course I have one, Sol," he says slowly. "Why wouldn't I have a name?"  
  
"I don't know how the splinter thing works --" You mean it halfway as an apology, but it only makes him madder. He stands up so he can look down his elegant nose at you, eyes cold.  
  
"And you're not gonna find out by takin' cheap shots at me, so for the sake a your own health I suggest you lay the fuck off that line a questioning."  
  
"My god, you're neurotic. How is that a cheap shot? How would I even know --"  
  
He bends to put his hands on the edge of the bed bracketing your hips, pushes his face right up close to yours. "I'm not a golem, you asshole," he snarls through his teeth. " _I'm not a fuckin' puppet_."  
  
You kiss him. Impulsive behavior is kind of a problem you have.


	7. The Tide

It's supposed to make him jump back out of your face. Break his train of thought. Maybe give him something to be mad about that's not such a huge personal hot button. He's supposed to back off and maybe punch you.  
  
Instead, after a frozen half-second, he makes the faintest sound in the back of his throat, and his lips soften and part.  
  
You have a brief moment of thinking _Now what?_ before liquid heat coils in your loins and licks up you like flame on spilled oil. It's not a creepy, imposed desire like the Titan's spell. It's simply this: your enemy is beautiful. Even though you'd still try to kill him if you met on the battlefield, you ache a little with bewildered sympathy at how hard he needs to insist he's a Real Boy. And his lips are soft, and he smells good, and it's a long time before he pulls away.  
  
He searches your eyes, distrustful. "Sol," he says warningly.  
  
You take hold of his shirt and pull him down. He melts into you, lets you put him on his back where you want him, tilts his head obligingly when you bite his neck. His hands knead the back of your shirt as if he's not sure he's allowed to hang on. He's breathing fast and shaking already.  
  
When you start undoing his pearl buttons, he grips your hand to stop you. "Why," he begins, and swallows.  
  
"I'm not seducing you for your secrets," you say in an irritated tone. "I just _want_ this. _Fuck_ ," you gasp as his hips twitch under yours, one abortive half-thrust like he can't stop himself.  
  
"Okay," he gulps. He threads his fingers into your hair and pulls you gently closer. "Okay," he whispers against your lips, and kisses you. There's a tenderness in the gesture that should scare you, but you're too hungry for him to heed the warning.  
  
His clothes are too complicated. After battling buttons and clasps for far too many seconds, you give up on having him naked. Besides, he looks amazing like this: silk shirt half-undone and slipping from his shoulders, tight velvet trousers pulled just far enough down his legs to bind them together, to show the tension in his thighs when you tease him with a loose grip.  
  
There are no arcane tattoos on the skin you've revealed. He's slimmer than the Titan, smoother, paler, all fresh cream and wild roses -- _No, damn it, I am not going to vomit poetry about him, even if he is the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen._  
  
"Please," he gasps. Eyes shut tight, stomach fluttering. You dip down to taste him, and he makes the sweetest little _ah!_ sound, white fingers digging into the bedding.  
  
He pries his eyes open to give you a dazed look, spreads a tentative hand on your still-clothed thigh. "Sol," he breathes, "Don't you want..."  
  
"I want to watch you come apart. I want to hear you."  
  
"Oh." His eyes clear, uncertainty vanishing, and he suddenly surges up to fasten his mouth to yours, tearing at your clothes. As urgent as he was unsure.  
  
It's too late for teasing or gloating. He's a tsunami. Whatever broke his resistance, he's all in now. He meets you kiss for kiss and bite for bite, leaves bruises on your hips, scratches on your back. You'd been starting to worry that he was a virgin, unlikely as that seemed, but it's clear now that he knows what he wants when he lets himself take it. You never do get around to blowing him; grinding together while nipping and sucking at each other's lips and throats is too good to stop. Five, maybe ten minutes and his silk shirt's beyond saving. When he comes, he moans like the sea in a cave.  
  
Afterwards, he holds you like he's afraid to let go. It's around then you start to think you have really, really fucked up.  
  
Well, shit. The Titan was just playing with his brother's toys, wasn't he? He didn't want you, he wanted to pull the Prince's pigtails. He went after you because you're something the Prince values. Damn it, how could you be so stupid? You should've seen it coming back when he spilled his guts to you over dinner. That plaintive tone of his -- _Thanks for listenin', Sol_ \-- and the way he treats you like an equal when something doesn't remind him to pull rank, and now he's got his arms locked around you like he might not unlock them even if you told him to.  
  
You've had so many meaningless fucks. You're a merc. You don't stick around. You fell into the habit of thinking no-strings-attached is the default arrangement. You just assumed he'd see it the same way.  
  
So... yeah, this is going to get messy.  
  
"You have the run of the ship," he says suddenly.  
  
That was not the conversation opener you expected. "... Thanks?"  
  
"I mean -- not because of this. God, I didn't, that made it sound like a reward for --"  
  
"You were bribing me to finish the cipher. No, I get it. You did mention it before."  
  
"I just don't want you thinkin' --"  
  
"Prince." You try to lift his head off your chest so you can look at him. He doesn't make it easy. "Shit, I wish I knew your scolding name just so I could get your damn attention. Prince, look at me."  
  
He looks at you. He's scowling and chewing his lip, scared and defensive. This is so dangerous. You can only make yourself keep talking because letting him misunderstand would make it even worse.  
  
"I haven't forgotten we're enemies," you say carefully. "But this was my idea and I can compartmentalize it if you can. We're not... buying anything from each other."  
  
He swallows. He nods.  
  
"Can you be rational about it? If you start acting different around me --"  
  
"Sol, I'm insulted you have to ask."  
  
"Titan was bad enough when he thought you were using me like a slave. If he gets the impression you..." Wow, it's surprisingly hard to finish that sentence without sounding like you're taunting him. "Have some kind of feelings for me..."  
  
"It ain't like he wants to start a war with me," he says disparagingly. "He's just a brat."  
  
"He did mess with me to get at you, though. I doubt he was captivated by my legendary beauty." You glance down at yourself with a quarter of a grin: scarred, brown, and wiry, the body of a working soldier even if you don't have the usual bulk. You're not insecure about it -- it's a good body and it does what you need it to -- or about your face, not even your scarred eye, but whatever the Prince likes about you, it's not your looks.  
  
"He's just a brat," he repeats. But he doesn't believe it himself, and goes on before you can answer. "Yes, all right, caution is called for. I won't draw attention to you. And if it turns out he _is_ working against me, I'll make sure he can't get at you. Is that good enough?" That last sounds a little forlorn, as if he genuinely needs your approval.  
  
You have a feeling you didn't get your point across after all. You're starting to think he might be immune to that particular point.  
  
You put your hand over your eyes and think hard for a minute. From a purely strategic standpoint, having the Prince infatuated with you could be incredibly useful. You'd have to be careful not to shatter his illusions while he still has any power over you, but plenty of rulers have been ruled by their lovers. It's a classic. You just have to overcome this pesky little kernel of conscience and the annoying fact that you _like_ him.  
  
You didn't become the Rebels' spymaster by clinging to principle. You can't abandon your purpose just because the enemy fucks like a champion. You're not sixteen.  
  
You take your hand from your eyes and lay it softly against his cheek, and you refuse to feel guilty at the way he bends to that touch as if being starved for affection might be fatal and you just saved his life.  
  
"Listen," you say slowly. "I still won't help you against the Rebels."  
  
"Yes...?" He's not sure where you're going with that.  
  
"But against anyone else, you have me. Don't waste me."  
  
"I won't," he says seriously. He covers your hand with his, pressing your palm to his face. Then he gives a slow blink, biting his lip, color rising in his cheeks. "I want you again already. Stop talkin' business a while."  
  
"I can do that," you grin.


	8. Intel

Familiarizing yourself with whatever city you're operating in is standard procedure for a spy, and exploring the Storm Palace is no different. You wander cautiously at first, apparently aimlessly, let yourself be seen sketching the sea and the crew until people are used to you and stop trying to get a look at your paper. Only then do you start making maps and calculating distances.  
  
Some places are still off-limits. The guards at the armory know who's authorized, personally as well as by rank and name, so you're not getting in there. The area where the flying carpets are stored is even harder to access; the guards there have been specifically warned against you. And the clerks in the administrative section, although they don't stop you wandering through, turn over the papers on their desks when you come by, watch you with chilly apathy, and politely but firmly refuse to converse. That's disappointing. You didn't expect to get a look at any battle plans or swipe a copy of the Prince's new codes -- because of course he would've changed them when you told him how trivial the old ones are to crack -- but even tax records or fund appropriations might've told you something useful.  
  
The vast vessel is annoyingly well-designed. There are far too few places where you could evade pursuit by climbing, jumping, or hiding. Disguising yourself as an Imperial won't work either; the officers know their men, they'd notice a new face. You're not getting out of here in any unofficial way. Nor can you spot any good opportunities for sabotage. Every crucial structure is either guarded or in plain sight, and the planks and sails have somehow been protected against fire.  
  
You're not too disheartened. You learned long ago that clinging to ceilings and slitting throats like spies do in adventure stories is not the best way to get things done. Your strengths are patience, icy nerve, and a willingness to do bad things for good reasons.  
  
Still, finding out that playing on the Prince's loneliness is your most prudent plan of attack doesn't have you jumping for joy. Evil overlord or not, manipulating him makes you feel like a complete shitheel.  
  
You strike up conversations with whoever will talk to you. Some of the crew seem to think you're a new Taken, and hearing you do 'secretarial work' for the Prince doesn't necessarily put them at ease. In fact, it makes the smarter ones even more wary. This is the Empire, after all; anyone with clean fingernails might be secret police. But you're good at finding things out without sounding like you're digging, and the regular grunts and tars aren't trained to resist interrogation. They let a _lot_ of things drop without realizing it.  
  
It's not likely you'll get any actual use out of any of this intel, but you're bored since you dead-ended on the cipher, and it's nice to keep current with the progress of the war. Even filtered through propaganda and wishful thinking, it's clear the Rebels are making progress. Slow, expensive progress, but they're still contenders. That's good to know.  
  
You also get a much clearer picture of what the average Imperial thinks about his leaders. The Orphaner is like a god to them. A scary, unloving god who doesn't care if he crushes the unlucky mortals who get in his way, but he's _their_ scary, unloving god. It doesn't even occur to them to judge him.  
  
The Titan, on the other hand, is a fellow-soldier, elevated as he is. They gossip about his exploits, laugh at his lechery, even poke fun at his tattoos. There are Titan jokes. But they're proud of him, for the most part, and even when they disparage him it's the way they'd mock a comrade to his face.  
  
As for the Prince, he's Brass with a capital B. He keeps them paid and fed, and if they don't like something about their quarters or duties they blame him. He gets credit for pretty much all logistical and tactical decisions, even the ones he was clearly not involved in. They bitch about him constantly. And yet they're convinced he knows everything, he's a strategic prodigy, he has plans within plans within plans. Their faith in his intelligence is almost superstitious.  
  
Your presence only confirms that view. Why is a former Rebel now the Prince's 'secretary'? Why, because the Prince is a genius! No further analysis required.  
  
You take to lurking unseen, mostly just to see how hard it is to do. It's only then that you overhear something to suggest the Imperials' loyalty isn't universal: some of the Titan's biggest fans are spreading rumors about the Prince. It doesn't feel like an organized campaign of character assassination, at least not on the crew's part, but some of it does sound like it was deliberately seeded. They're parroting phrases they wouldn't have thought up on their own; if they'd thought it up themselves, they'd be saying he's skimming the pay, not embezzling from the treasury.  
  
Whether or not to tell him takes some thought. On the one hand, it's a sign that the Titan may, indeed, be scheming against his brother, and you'd really rather not end up a hostage or an example. But on the other, you don't want to give the Prince the impression you're going to make a habit of spying for him. In the end, the first hand is more persuasive. And anyway... you kind of want to see him.  
  
You haven't seen Prince since the day you trashed your room. It seems it's up to you to make contact. Maybe he's embarrassed. Maybe he's testing you. You decide to find out what happens if you just try to walk in.  
  
What happens is the guards let you through without batting an eye.  
  
It's like a repeat of the first time you saw him. The gallery is a reception hall again, bare but for the throne and long carpet and the banners on the walls. The Prince is cloaked and crowned and gazing out at the sea, statue-lovely and distant. He pretends not to notice your arrival. _Really, Prince? Really?_  
  
"So do you pose like this when you're alone," you smirk, "or did I just miss you scrambling to get into position?"  
  
He doesn't answer for half a minute or so. Then he turns slowly, eyes gradually coming back to focus. "Yes, all magic involves a heap of shoutin' and wavin' my arms around, so I was manifestly not fuckin' _working_ or anything."  
  
Oh. You probably should've thought of that. Still, it'll look suspicious if you're suddenly all sweetness and light with him, and anyway, teasing him is fun. You give him an obnoxious little grin. "Did I just do my side a favor, then? I should break your concentration more often."  
  
He pulls a wry face. "It'll take me a little longer to find Rider, that's all. It's a fuckin' puzzle how he manages to hide a whole damn menagerie from the best Sight in the Empire. I don't suppose you feel like tellin' me where he is."  
  
"Blight Abbey," you answer instantly. It's the first place you can think of where you're sure he's not.  
  
"Liar."  
  
You laugh. "How the hell should I know? I knew two weeks ago, but you didn't ask me then."  
  
He takes the crown off and dangles it from a finger as he flings himself onto the throne, hooking one leg over the carved and gilded arm. Damn, he looks good like that. "Is this a social visit, Sol?" Half suspicion and half hope. "I was startin' to form the impression you didn't want to see me."  
  
"I didn't know I could just walk in here."  
  
"I didn't know you wouldn't try."  
  
"This might be news to you, Prince, but it doesn't usually occur to _peasants_ like me to march up to royalty and say 'How's it going?' That kind of stunt shortens the lifespan."  
  
He wrinkles his nose, as if annoyed that he has to give up berating you. He flips the crown around in his hand and is suddenly not holding it anymore, like a street conjurer making a coin vanish. He beckons you.  
  
You raise an eyebrow. You're not a pet. He's going to have to say 'please'.  
  
"You tellin' me you _don't_ want to fuck on the Orphaner's throne?" he smirks.  
  
Oh. Or that. That works too.


	9. The Seat of Empire

You take his ankle and pull his leg down, push him so he's sitting straight. He looks startled at this rough handling, but his breath quickens, and when you straddle his thighs he grips your waist and pulls you closer. You move his hands to your ass. The look on his face is hilarious, like he thinks he's getting away with something really illegal by squeezing your butt cheeks.  
  
"You're made of steel and fire," he says. You laugh, and his look darkens. He tries to shove you off, but not very hard. "Fuck you, I take it back."  
  
"No, hey," you say quickly, cupping his face. "It was just the thought of trying to reply in kind."  
  
"Don't bother," he sighs. He jerks away from your hands, but only so he can hide his face against your shoulder.  
  
Oops. Killed the mood. Way to go, Sollux. You lace your fingers at the back of his neck and lean your cheek against his hair. How does he get it to smell so good? "I'm shit at compliments. Anyway, you know you're gorgeous. It's impossible how gorgeous you are. It's magic, isn't it?"  
  
"Not mine."  
  
Oh. Right. If you've been created like a doll, being a _pretty_ doll is probably not much consolation. You're just making things worse. "You're kind of sweet," you try. "I like how you try to understand shit even when it's not your specialty." Why did he have to go and get romantic? That's like your worst skill. But maybe you're not fucking it up too badly; his shoulders are relaxing a little. "You're cute when I tease you, and sexy as hell when you're mad." He hesitantly raises his head, and there's that suspicious/hopeful look again. "You're a really good kisser?" you grin.  
  
"You _are_ shit at compliments," he interrupts, but he's having trouble not smiling.  
  
You bump foreheads with him. "Your ass looks _glorious_ in those pants."  
  
 _There's_ the smile. "You're a bullshit artist and you need to shut up."  
  
"I like it when you snark back at me."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I like you." And that's the truth, unfortunately.  
  
"Learn to tolerate the occasional poetic turn a phrase, then." Is that a playful pout? Oh god, it is. "It hurts my feelings when you go laughin' at my sincere regard."  
  
"Are we going to fuck or what?"  
  
"We so are," he says with hushed delight, as if amazed at his own daring.  
  
It dawns on you, at that point, that fucking on the Orphaner's throne might actually be a big deal. The throne might be important, a symbol of Imperial power. You might be about to genuinely desecrate an emblem of the Empire.  
  
 _Awesome_.  
  
Shoving your hands into his hair, you tilt his head back and kiss him hard. He surrenders eagerly. He's making urgent little noises within seconds, pulling you flush against him and rocking his hips. It doesn't take much of this before you're iron-hard and overheating. You're not going to waste this opportunity on a few minutes of grinding, though.  
  
Breaking the kiss, you lean back a bit so you can get your shirt off, and after a glaze-eyed moment he follows suit. His clothes are more complicated than yours, so you get to distract him and make him fumble his buttons. He can't work the clasp of the cloak, and just pulls it off over his head and drops it. You slip back off his lap and stand up; he reaches for you, distressed, as if he thinks you might be going to walk away. Then you begin slowly unbuttoning your trousers, and understanding dawns. He licks his lips, watching your hands with something like awe.  
  
"Tell me you can summon oil or something," you say as you step out of your pants.  
  
"Uh." It takes him a moment to gather himself, like your erection is somehow mesmerizing. "Yes. Yes I can. Do you um."  
  
"Get your pants off, dork."  
  
"Oh." He blushes even redder as he hurries to obey. It's adorable how clumsy he is.  
  
You don't wait for him to do more than open them and free himself before settling astride him again. He tries to tug you down, lifts his face as if expecting kisses, but you don't give him anything yet. "Get me ready," you command.  
  
He strips off a couple rings and makes them disappear. Hesitantly, almost shyly, he reaches between your legs and curls his fingers up, and though you didn't see him do anything that looked like magic, his touch is slick. Too light; it tickles, and you twitch. He grows bolder, strokes more firmly, tries pressing in just the tip of one finger, watching your face intently all the while.  
  
"God, what are you used to fucking, twelve-year-old virgins?" you grumble. "Get in there!"  
  
He makes one of those amazing broken sounds of his, eyes wide, and slides that slick finger in to the knuckle. Your body jerks. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Oh shit that's good. No real pain, just enough stretch to make it a challenge. He looks like he's going to ask if you're all right, and you hate that, so you kiss him deep and dirty. He can't treat you like a delicate flower while you're sucking his tongue.  
  
Maybe that gets your point across, because he doesn't need to be prompted for the second finger. You fuck yourself on his hand until you have to stop kissing him to gasp for breath. He gawks up at you like you're a god. You grin evilly as you ease back off his fingers. "Slick yourself," you order.  
  
You turn around so you're kneeling with your back to him. With a hum like a close-mouthed moan, he fits himself to you, and you sink down nice and slow.  
  
"Oh god," he gasps. "Oh god, oh fuck, Sol." Clutches your hips, wet mouth open against your spine. "Wait, I just."  
  
You have to take a white-knuckle grip on the arms of the throne to keep still. He feels fucking amazing inside you, and his harsh breath on your back is a brand new kind of sexy. Your self-control slips for just a moment; you shudder and tense around him; he pulls you down hard and makes a hiccup-sob noise. Your cock jumps like you're about to come. You have to bite your lip sharply and take a long breath through your nose, and it sounds like he does something similar.  
  
"Okay," he says at last.  
  
You use the throne's arms to push yourself up so you can sink back down. He does that humming thing again. On your second stroke, he rises to meet you. You shift forward an inch or two, arch your back a little more, try it again -- "Fuck! Yes!"  
  
"Sol, mmnh -- the way your back -- when I -- so hot _god don't stop_ \--"  
  
Stop? Is he crazy? You can no more stop than you can do sorcery. You know you're going to come the second he touches your cock, and you keep almost telling him to, but you never quite say it because you don't want this to be over.  
  
And then your thigh cramps.  
  
He groans as you go still. "What, no, _why_."  
  
"Leg cramp."  
  
" _Fuck_."  
  
You give a breathless snicker. "No plan survives contact with the enemy."  
  
His shocked laugh shakes you both, which feels good enough that it makes you try to move again, but nope, leg still locked up. He pushes gently at you, urging you off him; you grimace as you straighten the leg. He slips off the throne as well and gestures for you to sit on it, kneels on the footrest, tugs your hips until your ass is just at the edge. You hook your ankles over his shoulders and grin a dare at him.  
  
He grips your legs under the knees and sinks home. You surprise yourself with a shout of pleasure. You're not usually a screamer, but holy shit, this is incredible. The most beautiful man in the world is fucking you _on the actual Orphaner's actual throne_ , slamming into you like a machine, bending over you with wide eyes and parted lips as if the mere fact of you blows his mind. The only way this could possibly be better would be if _you_ were fucking _him_ on the throne -- and maybe not even then, because this way it's going to be your sweat and come soaked into the cushions.  
  
"Sol, I'm so close," he begs. His hair is stuck to his sweaty face, his body trembling, every muscle outlined tense under his flushed skin. You take hold of yourself. One stroke and you're gone. He fucks you through it, hard and almost comically fast, then goes rigid with a deep groan.  
  
He slips out of you, drops your legs, catches himself over you on trembling arms. You're both spattered, dripping sweat, gasping for breath. You look into each other's eyes for a long moment. He cracks a grin, you match it, and then you're both laughing yourselves stupid.  
  
"Move." You shove at him, still laughing. "I'm getting a crick in my neck."  
  
"But jelly legs," he protests. A bit more shoving and he goes. Absently pulls his trousers up while he watches you stand and stretch the knots out. Together you turn and look at the throne. Yeah, it looks like someone had sex on it.  
  
"Tell me you're not going to magic-clean that so it never happened," you say.  
  
He chews at the side of his mouth, thinking. He makes a gesture, and is suddenly holding a purple velvet pillow. He plops it down atop the throne's stained upholstery with a satisfied air. You both crack up again. You laugh until you have to hang onto each other to keep from falling down.


	10. There Is No Knife

"Now summon a bed," you tell him once you've caught your breath. "My legs are gonna be shaky for an _hour_."  
  
"You sure like givin' me orders."  
  
"You know you love it."  
  
"Hmph." He's still smiling, though. "Grab our clothes, then." While you do that, he buttons his trousers and collects his cloak. He swirls the cloak around your shoulders. You blink reflexively as his arm comes close to your face, and after the blink the room has changed.  
  
You stare around curiously. It's the same gallery, you'd swear it was the same, except that it's not a throne room anymore, it's a cluttered, messy bedchamber. The Prince's bedchamber, obviously -- first of all, where else would he take you, and second, who else would have bedcurtains of violet gauze embroidered with schools of jellyfish and rays?   
  
It's still quite a large room, much too large for even such an oversized bed to fill it. The rest of the space is cluttered with chairs and couches, tables and bookshelves, _three_ ornate globes, a telescope, a workbench covered with alchemical nonsense. The areas with wizardish-looking stuff are tidy, but all the rest of the place is littered with stacks of books and papers, discarded clothing, and dirty dishes. _Actual dirty dishes_ in the Prince's bedroom. It's like he's a regular person or something.  
  
"I take it you don't let the servants in here much."  
  
"I'm not that foolish," he says as he uses the cloak to tug you toward the bed. You drop your armload of clothes and go along without resistance. "Someone would try to tidy my worktable and ruin a month's work."  
  
"You change your own bedding?"  
  
"Mhm."  
  
"By the way, you're still wearing pants," you point out.  
  
"You should fix that." He doesn't seem to want to let go. This is becoming a theme.  
  
Well, it's not like you object to undressing him. You kiss him lazily while you take the opportunity to grope his ass. He steadies himself on your shoulders, toes his boots off and steps out of his pants. He sinks backwards onto the bed, pulling you down atop him. You brace yourself for the clammy touch of drying semen, but it doesn't happen; somehow he cleaned you both up without you noticing. Wow, it must be nice to be so powerful that magic is less trouble than a towel. You grin at the thought. He returns the grin fondly, smoothing the cloak over your back.  
  
"What's with the cloak?" you ask absently. He has perfectly good blankets you could be using. "Is it magic?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"What, like if you didn't wrap me in it your room would attack me or something?"  
  
"Nah. I just like how it looks on you."  
  
You prop up on one elbow to crook an eyebrow at him. "But it is magic."  
  
"Generally."  
  
"Generally magic."  
  
"Yes." He's just messing with you now.  
  
"What's it do?"  
  
"Not telling."  
  
"If you can clean the sex funk off us by magic, why can't you wash your dishes?"  
  
He just shrugs. Then you lie around staring at each other like infatuated kids for quite a while, running fingers through each other's mussed hair and exchanging occasional unhurried kisses.  
  
There's a part of your mind that's squirming with intense discomfort. The problem is, you can't tell if it's your conscience, ashamed at how well you're acting the doting lover, or your professional focus, afraid you might not be acting. It would be so easy to use him. It would be so easy to fall for him. You don't know which you're doing. You're scared you might be doing both, and wouldn't _that_ be a classic tragedy scenario: you realize you love him at the same time he realizes you've been subverting him, and you break each other's hearts in tandem.  
  
Seeing it coming isn't going to help you avoid it, either. Life sucks like that sometimes.  
  
"Titan's fans are spreading nasty rumors about you among the crew," you blurt.  
  
His eyebrows shoot up. "Now, Sol? _Now_ is the time you want to talk about this?"  
  
Right, acting strange and talking nonsense is definitely a good way to deal with your conflict of purpose. Good job, Sollux. "I just remembered. That was why I came looking for you. I'd forgotten until now."  
  
"And here I thought it was because you wanted to see me." His put-on pout isn't completely fake.  
  
"I thought I needed a reason."  
  
"You don't." He kisses the ball of your shoulder for punctuation. "You can come here whenever -- hell, you can _stay_ here, you don't have to live in that pokey little room. I'll even tidy up."  
  
You sigh. Well, here comes reality creeping back again. Fuck. "You know that'd be a dumb idea. What did I say about acting rational?"  
  
"I don't _want_ to act rational!" He rolls away and sits up, suddenly all tension. He clenches fistfuls of the blanket, smooths them out, makes fists again. He bursts, "It's so fuckin' unfair! Bein' shut up in this ship like a princess in a tower, followin' orders, bein' a good little proxy, gettin' blamed for every unavoidable fuckin' misfortune and every _stupid_ -ass thing Dad does an' he don't even _trust_ me anymore." The more upset he is, the thicker his accent gets. He spreads his hands with a bitter laugh. "Well, look at this, turns out I ain't exactly trustworthy. Sleepin' with the enemy --"  
  
"Whoa, whoa." You don't like this line of thinking. "This has nothing to do with that."  
  
"Is that so." He slips off the bed and paces to the bright window, not seeming to care that he's naked. "What if I'm just doin' it to rebel?"  
  
"Are you?"  
  
"I don't know!" He chokes on the words. "Is that the kind of man I am? How should I fuckin' know? Who am I, Sol?"  
  
"Why ask me? I don't even know your name."  
  
"And I can't tell you!" He thumps the window with the side of his fist. "Because we're enemies. Because you'd be duty-bound to use it against me."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
He lifts his chin, taking a long, shaky breath. "Not your fault, Sol. Just the way things are."  
  
"I know. And I would. Use it against you. Let's not pretend that's not a thing." You take a steadying breath of your own. "But for what it's worth, I wish like hell we were on the same side."  
  
He just stands there for several minutes, unmoving. You rack your brain for something better to say, but you've got nothing. The sinking sun falls below the eyewall to the west; the glare vanishes; you can suddenly see him clearly, and you realize his shoulders are shaking irregularly.  
  
"Shit," you mutter. "Come here. Prince, come here."  
  
He shakes his head slightly without turning around. His hand uncurls from a fist, spreads on the window glass as if to steady himself there. "Quit givin' m-me orders." He almost manages to keep the sob out of it.  
  
"Oh, shut up, you big baby. Get your ass over here already."  
  
He half turns, side-eyeing you as if you might be taunting him. You open your arms. He takes a sharp breath. He strides back to the bed in three long strides and flings himself at your chest.   
  
You wrap him up with you in the cloak and hold him while he bawls on your shoulder like a child. You've never had anyone cry on your shoulder before. You don't know what to do. You feel awkward, like you're doing it wrong. If you were doing it right he'd be stopping, wouldn't he? But he just sobs on and on. You find yourself crooning nonsense to him, stroking his hair and back, rocking him. Anything to fix this, because you need to not be feeling what this is making you feel.  
  
He cries himself down to hiccups. Cries himself ugly. When he finally pulls away he's a mess. You look at him with his bloodshot, puffy eyes and his red nose and his blotchy cheeks, and something twists in your chest.  
  
"Sol," he says hoarsely. "Sol, I love you."  
  
 _You shouldn't_ , you want to say. _I'll ruin you_. "I don't know what to do with that," you confess.  
  
"Try lovin' me back?"  
  
"You don't want that, Prince."  
  
"Don't tell me what I want."  
  
"I'd try to convince you to switch sides. I'd never give up."  
  
"At least I'd know someone w-wants me..." Shit, he's going to start again.  
  
"Fine," you growl. "Come away with me. Join the Rebels. Tell me your name, give up your power, they won't trust you if you don't." Your voice has lost the edge of anger. It's like you actually... oh hell. You actually want this, don't you? "Don't be a Sea Lord anymore. Come be an ordinary soldier with me. We'll fight together and die together and they'll burn us on the same pyre."  
  
His eyes are shining with longing as well as tears. "Sol, I don't even know if I'm _real_."  
  
"Of course you're fucking real. I wouldn't --" You swallow. In for a penny, in for a pound. "I wouldn't feel like this about you if you weren't."  
  
"I mean _literally_. For all I know, Dad can just... unmake me. Or _absorb_ me. Or mash me together with Titan into one extra-spectacular douche. For all I know, if I give up my power, I'll just vanish." He waves a hand. "Poof."  
  
"That would be the correct sound effect, yes."  
  
He gawks at you in disbelief for a moment. Then he bursts out laughing. It's the kind of desperate, pressurized laughter that's more relief than mirth, but it's better than crying. "Oh my god, Sol. I can't fuckin' believe you."  
  
"So now _my_ existence is in doubt too?"  
  
"Stop makin' fun a my condition, you son of a bitch," he chuckles. He thumps your shoulder lightly, and you thump him back.  
  
"Stop being a drama queen," you retort. "It's not like he made you out of a vase of daisies. He's not a god. He has to have started with a living body. Even if he shaped you to begin with, this is really you now." You spread a hand on his chest. "You're not some illusion. Did he make you full-grown, or did you have a childhood?"  
  
He shakes his head slightly. "I don't remember. It starts getting fuzzy a few years back. Same with Titan. I think our minds might be... missing some bits."  
  
"Look, all I'm saying is, you're not going to goddamn vanish!"  
  
"Nice to know you're confident takin' that risk with my life, Sol. Thanks a lot."  
  
You snort. If he's determined not to believe you, there's nothing more you can say. "You'd never make it in the Rebels anyway. You're not half hard enough."  
  
"That'd be a great opening for an innuendo if I didn't just get laid." A yawn garbles the end of that. He burrows against your shoulder with a soft sigh. "Sleep here."  
  
"It's not even dark yet."  
  
"If I ever slept holdin' somebody before, I don't remember it. I wanna try it."  
  
"Don't you have a world to subjugate?"  
  
"Shut up an' sleep with me, Sol."  
  
"Worst pickup line ever." You laugh when he lifts his head to scowl at you. "I'm just giving you shit. Go to sleep. I'll stay."  
  
He kisses you gratefully, then nuzzles back in, getting comfortable. Minute by minute, his body relaxes, his breath slows. He starts making the occasional rasping sound, precursor to a snore that never comes. You catch yourself thinking, _He'll snore like a sawmill when he's older_ , and have to bite your lip hard when you realize how stupid you're being. He's not going to get any older. Yes, he's physically real, he breathes and sweats and sleeps like any living man, but he's been twenty for longer than you've been alive. He's not going to give up his power and come home with you and be yours.  
  
He's an idiot to trust you. You could kill him right now. God -- you could _kill_ him right now.   
  
This could be the moment you got in his good graces for. You could take out a third of the dark triumvirate _right fucking now_. There's -- how is this even real -- there's a small knife on a table beside the bed, on a plate with a couple withered slices of apple. You could reach it without waking him. You know precisely where to put that knife to kill him instantly, painlessly, and then you'd have all the time in the world to make sure Orphaner can't resurrect him. Behead him, throw the body in the ocean --  
  
You feel like you're going to vomit.  
  
For the first time in your life, you deliberately turn your back on your duty. You hide your face against his hair and pull the corner of the cloak over both your heads.   
  
There is no knife. There is no duty. There is no war.


	11. Control and Compromise

When business finally calls him away, you borrow a stack of books to take with you. The chance of one of them being the cipher key is slim, but what the hell, it's something to do besides stare out the window like a smitten schoolboy. Once you've checked them against the cipher, you could always read them.  
  
You need to keep busy. You are absolutely not going to act like a kid about this. You're not going to let the Prince become the center of your life just because there are stupid, melodramatic, overcomplicated _feelings_ involved now. You're not going to lie awake reminiscing, and you're sure as hell not going to get up in the middle of the night and try to get into his room.  
  
Just to make sure, you wear yourself out with exercise as well as fiddling with the cipher. Climb up and down the rigging, look for sparring partners among the off-duty crew, clean your room. When your mind wanders as you're reading, you assign yourself push-ups.  
  
Only when you've finished the books do you let yourself go see him. To beg more books, of course. Not because trying not to think about him is such a constant effort that you'd probably think about him less if you quit fighting it. And if you bathe and shave extra-carefully before going, well, it's only polite. Why pretend you're not going to fuck? There's no point being _delusional_ about it. Carrying your stack of borrowed volumes, you make yourself walk at a casual pace, but your mind's eye is full of the Prince. And not just his delicious body, but his laugh, his expressive brows, the way he tilts his head, his fondly irritated scowl when you tease him, the vulnerable look in his eyes when he said he loved you, the hope and terror there --  
  
The guards turn you away. They say he's not in.  
  
You stomp back to your room, throw the books on the bed, and then go out to sit on the second deck stern rail and sulk at the sea. You're such an idiot. He was talking like a kid with a crush, so you expected him to _act_ like one. Say goodbye before he goes, for instance. Tell you where he's going. Tell _you_ , a prisoner, a Rebel, you who reminded him so many times that you're still enemies.  
  
He's probably out fighting your friends right now. It's his job to kill everyone you love, and you still hope he comes back alive.  
  
This is stupid.  
  
* * *  
  
You're perched on a coil of line just outside the landing area, eating an orange, when the carpets come in.  
  
There are three of them; he has his Taken with him. You've never seen them up close before. They're surprisingly attractive people. The Orphaner's henchmen look like the monsters they are -- Mindfang with her compound eye, Darkleer's grotesque bulk, Highblood's absurd oversized hands. The Prince's Taken are almost as handsome as he is.  
  
The first to land is Undine, a plump little pixie of a girl with wild black curls and a dress of colorful veils. Her sweet face seems, at first glance, as bright and open as a child's, and you're seized with a moment's simple longing. It's not even sexual desire. You just want to know her. When she hops off the carpet, though, there's something subtly wrong about the way she moves, and the soldiers keep well out of her way, as if she has a habit of tormenting them.  
  
Next comes Anvil, a tall black man with eerie blue eyes and a face as noble and serene as a temple statue. He's scorched and battered, but he carries himself with immense dignity. There's just one moment, as he gets up, when he leans on his trademark bow as if in pain before he forces himself to stand straight.  
  
And finally, the Prince, though you wonder how you're so sure it's him. His armor is the same as the Orphaner's. Black and spiky, a caricature villain, with that lightning crown somehow fitted atop the helmet, and the purple cloak rippling picturesquely. The cold weight of his magic is the same, he moves with the same leisurely menace, and his armored boots shake the deck as if he alone rules the world.  
  
But you know it's him. You don't move to get out of sight as the three of them come toward you. You don't even stand up. The Taken ignore you, start to walk past you, but the Prince stops and takes his helmet off.  
  
His hair is flattened and sweaty. There's a bruise on his cheekbone and blood crusted under his nose. He's an unhealthy sort of pale, a little greenish around the mouth, as if he has heatstroke or got punched in the gut. He manages a smile for you nonetheless.  
  
"Why, Sol," he teases, "were you waiting to welcome me home?"  
  
You shrug. You pop a section of orange in your mouth and talk around it. "I ran out of books."  
  
Anvil makes a sound of outrage. "How dare you address His Highness so casually? Your insolence is inexcusable!"  
  
The Prince waves a hand to shut him up without looking at him. "You waited _here_ because you're out of books? No, you missed me."  
  
If it was just the two of you, you'd spin him a line of bull about how much you didn't. What an imposition it is to have him back, how you were already divvying up his stuff and renting out his room. But bantering with brass in front of underlings isn't a great idea, so you just smirk and say, "I guess I did."  
  
Undine sucks in her cheeks and widens her eyes as if she just heard the most delicious, juicy gossip. Anvil's eyes narrow suspiciously. The Prince looks like a farmer who just dug up gold in his field: disbelieving delight seasoned with a generous pinch of where's-the-catch.  
  
"Wait in your room," he tells you. "I have things to attend to before we can talk."  
  
You shrug again. You offer him a piece of orange. He reaches for it, but hesitates as if not sure he wants to get orange juice on his gauntlet. Undine darts a quick little hand to snatch the slice. She dimples as she pops it in her mouth. The Prince gives her a fond look before turning on his heel and striding away. The Taken both throw you glances over their shoulders as they follow, Undine amused, Anvil warning.  
  
You sit and wait for the chill of their presence to subside. You finish your orange. You try to go look at the carpets, but the guards still won't let you get any closer. When you've dawdled enough to convince yourself you're not rushing to obey, you go to your room and wait.  
  
An hour or so later, a guard conveys a summons. You're a little annoyed at that, and a lot annoyed at yourself for caring. Your sense of affront vanishes when the rosewood doors lead, this time, to a library, and the Prince is standing by a table of stacked books like a nervous schoolboy waiting for his turn to recite. He wasn't making you wait just to prove he's in charge. He hasn't even cleaned up; he's wearing a sweaty undershirt stained with armor polish, and there's still a little dried blood rimming his nostrils.  
  
"Welcome back," you tell him dryly. "Did you have a nice war? Kill anyone I know?"  
  
"No and no. Your friends are Titan's problem right now, and I half hope they kill him, and I hate myself for it." He looks away, eyes tight. "I'm becoming disloyal. I'm compromised. Was this your intent?"  
  
"Oh please, not this shit," you growl, while your stomach turns over. You don't even know whether it's fear or guilt. _Classic tragedy scenario. God, not yet!_ "We are not going down this road."  
  
"You don't get to decide that."  
  
"We are not going to do the thing where you're uncomfortable with your feelings so you blame me and give me hell for it. I keep _telling_ you not to get crazy. Don't you take it out on me." You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. Tempting as it is to make a big lovers' quarrel out of this, you know provoking him is unwise. You try lightening the mood instead. "Anyway, _everyone_ wants Titan dead. You're just late to the party."  
  
"That's my brother you're talking about," he snaps. So much for defusing the tension with jokes.  
  
"See, this is what I keep warning you against. To me he's an enemy commander, and you need to not forget that. To me, his death is a strategic objective. And yours would be too if I had my head screwed on right. _I'm_ the one who's compromised here."  
  
His jaw clenches. After a tense moment, though, he takes a deliberate, slow breath and relaxes. When he meets your eyes, there's more sadness than anger in him. "You had a chance to stab me in the back the other night. You didn't take it."  
  
So he knew. Scowling, you yank out a chair at the book table and drop into it. "Yeah, well." You open a book, but can't focus on the words.


	12. Literally Made For War

He takes the other chair. He stares at his hands for a while, picking grime from under his nails. Why doesn't he clean himself up by magic? It was so effortless for him the other day. Is he that exhausted from his battle? But he wasn't having any trouble flying his carpet. Maybe he's got the cleanup spell set into some magic item. He's not wearing his rings, probably because they wouldn't have fit under the gauntlets. Maybe it's in one of those.  
  
"I think Undine used to scold me like that," he says softly. "I think I used to love her. But I can't _remember_. I did something to her, something she's never forgiven me for, and I don't even know what it is."  
  
"Uh... turning her into an unkillable monster, maybe?"  
  
"I don't _know_." He thumps his elbows on the table and drops his face into his hands. Not covering himself, but with fingers splayed across his cheeks, framing his wide-open eyes, staring straight ahead. He looks like a madman that way.  
  
"Man, where did you go?" you say. "You're in a hell of a mood, what happened?"  
  
"I'll forget you," he says hollowly. "Like I forgot her. Why did I forget her? What's wrong with my head?"  
  
"Why don't you just ask her what happened?"  
  
"She's Taken, Sol." His too-round eyes slide to you in a really creepy way. "She's riddled with spells like parasites. She can't defy me. So correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm thinkin' it might be just a tiny fuckin' bit unfair to pick a fight with her like a jilted ex." Then, "What?" he adds suspiciously as you crack a relieved grin.  
  
"There's the snark. You were starting to freak me out a little bit."  
  
"I'm freaking me out," he moans. He stretches forward to lay his cheek on the table, arms sprawled, knocking over a stack of books. Posing like a grieving angel on a tomb -- a grieving angel with beautifully muscled shoulders, and a nicely developing shiner to go with that bruised cheek. The gesture makes your heart twinge. This is the reason you're so conflicted: this brilliant, childish man, all theater and thoughtless grace. He's such a huge wanker, and you're so glad to have him back.  
  
"I did miss you," you confess. "It's stupid, but I did. I went to see you and you weren't there, and it pissed me off. So there's that."  
  
He gives you a tight smile without lifting his head. "I missed you too, and that's even stupider. I needed my focus. It was such a foul fuckin' mess out there." The smile fades. "Resurrectionists."  
  
"You're fucking kidding me." Of course anyone as memorable as the Condesce is going to have fans, but it's hard to believe there are enough of them to merit the Prince's personal attention.  
  
"I wish. They're getting more and more organized. I wasn't just rounding up a few lunatics; this was a proper battle. They had mages, Sol. I almost lost Anvil, and Undine blew a trident savin' his ass, and it'll take her _forever_ to enchant a new one. I musta killed three, four hundred Resurrectionists today, and god knows how many civilians, because of course the kinda nutjobs who think the Condesce would be a breath a fresh air wouldn't do me the courtesy a fightin' in a nice open field. The assholes were lobbing fireballs outta the middle a one a those tight-packed slums. Naturally when we knocked 'em back the whole shitting warren went up like tinder."  
  
A tear runs across the bridge of his nose, and he lifts his head just enough to scrub his eyes with his grimy wrist. You feel sick. This is not how you survive a war. You can't let yourself _feel_ these things. Not when you have to keep fighting.  
  
Does he do this every time? Has he been doing it _alone_ all this time?  
  
"Prince," you say quietly. "Stop. You can't do this to yourself."  
  
"And I was missin' you," he goes on as if he didn't hear you, accent thickening until you can barely understand him. "I didn't have time to fuckin' _think_ , but I was thinkin' anyway, and what I was thinkin' was, 'I want to be where Sol is.' I was thinkin' it was categorically fuckin' unfair I had to be out slaughterin' my loyal goddamn subjects when my proper occupation is kissin' you an lettin' you talk shit to me. Can you credit it? I was _literally_ made for war, but there I was ready to file a complaint with management on account a havin' to fight."  
  
You slide your hand across the table until you knuckles bump his. "No, you weren't."  
  
"What, made for war? You _know_ were I came from."  
  
"Maybe you were made for this." You tilt your chin at the books. "You're a born administrator if I ever saw one."  
  
"Heh. Born."  
  
That's just self-pity and you ignore it. "Don't get me wrong, I know exactly how goddamn deadly you are. But -- okay, listen. I think I told you once you remind me a bit of Sufferer. He's a hell of a general, but the truth is I think he'd be happiest as a village magistrate or the captain of a city watch. He has this weirdly loving way of knocking heads. He was born to keep the peace, not make war."  
  
"You think Dad designed me to be a bureaucrat," he says bitterly. "Wow. Thank you."  
  
"I don't think he _designed_ you at all," you retort. "I don't think he has that much control over your personality. The huge difference between you and Titan is proof of that. All he gave you is power. If you got rid of it, you wouldn't disappear, you'd be _free_."  
  
"I'm a fuckin' monster for hopin' my brother loses his battle. And a coward for wanting to run away from my duties. But if it was just a question of givin' up my magic... if it was just that question I'd risk it. I'd run away with you right now."  
  
You lace your fingers with his and give him a weary half-grin. "If it helps any, I'm starting to think if somebody's got to rule the world it might as well be you."  
  
He gives a choked laugh. "We're a pair a world class idiots." He closes his eyes, takes a steadying breath. Lets go of your hand and pushes himself upright. "No luck yet finding out what books Dad's Taken are lugging around. I know tryin' 'em one by one is a fool's errand, but maybe you'll get lucky."  
  
" _Will_ I get lucky?" You waggle your eyebrows. "You tell me."  
  
"Sol," he snickers. "No. I wish. No, I have so much shit to catch up on. I wasn't even supposed to go out, but someone had to do it. You want to come with me next time?"  
  
"Not really," you answer automatically. You've been having a nice vacation here. Digging crazy cultists out of their hidey-holes doesn't sound like fun at all. But it does need doing, and you should probably try to learn more about this war's other front in case you ever manage to get back to your real work. Besides, it's so boring when he's gone. So before he can respond to your answer, you reverse it. "Yeah, okay. If you have a use for someone who can't throw fireballs."  
  
"Of course I do," he says warmly.  
  
You beckon him. "You must at least have time for a kiss."  
  
"Of course I do," he repeats with a different kind of warmth.


	13. A Bit Fierce for a Desk Jockey

He makes good on his promise four days later.  
  
The rosewood doors default to the library for you now, and you've been working in there instead of your room. There's no point pretending it's not because he's sometimes there too. He's got his little administrative corner just out of sight from the table you work at, and you don't interact with each other much, but you still like hearing his voice when he talks to the clerks who go in and out. You still like looking at him every so often when you get up to reshelve the volumes you've eliminated and gather a new armload.  
  
You've got it bad, and it's dumb, and you feel dumb about it, but that's how it is. At least he's in the same predicament. He could totally have the clerks fetch his reference materials instead of getting them himself. He's obviously only doing it so he can walk past you and trail a hand across your shoulders.  
  
When you arrive on the fourth day, he isn't at his desk. There's a box and a note waiting for you at your workstation. The box is a handsome writing case, plum-dark rosewood inlaid with irridescent, honey-colored shell. The pens and brushes inside match. The ink bottle is amber caged in silver. You've never owned anything so nice. He’s giving you presents now? This is getting completely out of hand.  
  
You unfold the note. Purple ink, of course. His handwriting's kind of hilarious. He really gets carried away on the zigzag letters.  
  
 _Sol: I havve an errand today wwhich requires your servvice. Dress clerical & be ready to play secretary._  
  
Would've been nice to have a little more warning. You only have the one outfit; you've been swapping back to the patched old shirt and trousers from your Rebel uniform when you send the clothes the Prince gave you to be cleaned. Fortunately, you did that pretty recently, so you're only a little rumpled at the moment.  
  
You hurry back to your room to fetch the neckcloth and gloves you've been leaving off, check that you didn't miss any spots shaving, and comb your hair smooth so as to look more like an uptight douche. Then you return to the library.  
  
While you wait for him, you stare out the windows. You pretty much stopped looking, because the weather never changes here, but the sky looks different today. The eyewall is closer, darker, and there are shreds of cloud streaking into the blue above. You have no idea where on the vast sea the Storm Palace even is right now. That sort of bothers you all of a sudden.  
  
"Let me see you."  
  
You jump. You spin to shoot him a glare for sneaking up on you; he smirks like he just did it to mess with you. Well, obviously he did, because you would've felt his aura if he didn't suppress it. He's wearing his full royal getup: cloak and crown and probably-magic rings; silk and velvet sewn with pearls and gold. He looks mouthwatering, which is completely unfair considering how long it's been since he had time to mess around.  
  
"I guess that'll have to do," he says dubiously. "You look a bit fierce for a desk jockey, though. It's that scar. Maybe I should find you an eyepatch."  
  
"Good thought, an eyepatch would absolutely make me less intimidating," you snicker. "Make it black leather with a skull and crossbones on it."  
  
"Or perhaps some wire-rimmed spectacles," he goes on. "That would raise the clerkish quotient."  
  
"I used to have glasses before I joined the Company. Lost them in my first fight. I'm accustomed to going without now."  
  
He brightens. "Oh! _That's_ why you hunch over your work like that." He whirls and strides out.  
  
You wait, bemused. Is he going to go steal glasses from his men? Or does he have a stash of them somewhere? Why couldn't he just summon some? Is he going to make you try on every pair of specs on the ship in hope of finding one that works?  
  
He returns bearing a single pair. The gold filigree frames are set with bright pink gems. He looks so pleased with himself that you take them and try them on even though they're ridiculous. "Well?" he says expectantly. "Too strong, too weak?"  
  
"Bit too strong. Why'd you have to go fetch them?" you ask as you hand them back. "Couldn't you just summon them?"  
  
"They're Undine's spares. Stealin' my troops' personal effects is bad for morale." He folds his hand around first one lens and then the other. When you put them on again, the world jumps into startling focus. You'd forgotten what it was like to be able to read the titles of the books in a shelf halfway across the room. You close first one eye and then the other. "Right side's a hair too weak now." He fixes that for you, and you nod. "Perfect. Except that I should point out they don’t exactly go with my outfit. I’m gonna need a tutu and some sparkly fairy wings."  
  
"She said you can keep them, so I guess she won't mind if I..." He beckons for them again.  
  
Under his fingertips, the metal moves like soft clay. He straightens out curlicues, smooths away flowers and leaves, somehow makes the little teardrop tourmalines flow together into a single rectangular stone at each temple and darkens it to garnet. He offers them again, proud as a child. They're still a bit on the foppish side, but at least they’re not drag anymore. You put them on and wait for him to tell you you look nearly adequate.  
  
"Next time we fuck," he says roughly, "you're leaving those on."  
  
Your eyebrows climb. "You have a thing for glasses."  
  
"No, but I'm considerin' developin' one. You have no fuckin' clue how hot you are, do you, Sol?"  
  
"Next time we fuck," you grin, "you can try to convince me. When's that going to be, do you think? Can it maybe be sometime _before_ I die of blue balls?"  
  
"I'll expire first, at this rate." He sounds as frustrated as you feel. "But we honestly don't have time now. You see those clouds? When we get rain in the eye, it means the storm's weakening. And that means Dad will be here soon to spin it back up."  
  
Well. _That_ killed your boner. "Shit. How long?"  
  
"Probably tomorrow, but better safe than sorry. I never know where he is, and if he happens to be nearby --"  
  
"What the fuck are we standing around here for?" You grab the writing case and look ready-to-go as hard as you can.  
  
He nods, turns away, but as you start to follow he stops and whirls back. You almost run into him. He takes your face in his hands and kisses you long and hungry. You're both a little dazed when it's over. You both have to take deep breaths to get yourselves under control before you can head out.  
  
Up on the carpet deck, a hot wind is starting to gust up, and you're hit with intermittent spatters of rain. While the soldiers untie the carpet, their officer takes off his rain cape and hands it to you. You memorize his face as you thank him so you can give it back later. The Prince gives the man a thoughtful look as well. Somebody's getting a promotion.  
  
The Prince has you sit in front of him. You brace for a gut-roiling flight, but when he lifts off it's smooth as butter. Seems he's a better flier than Mindfang. Either that or she's a daredevil; you'd believe that. The Storm Palace falls away below. The sound of waves slapping the hull, which you'd nearly stopped noticing, fades until the only sounds are the slight rustle of your clothes in the wind and the patter of raindrops. Then even that last stops as the carpet rises above the tattered clouds.  
  
You pull the cape tighter. It's cold up here. Hard to breathe, too, like being on top of a mountain. You ease backwards until you can lean back against the Prince's chest, hoping he'll wrap his cloak around you. He doesn't move, though. You nestle closer. "Hey. Ever have sex on a carpet while it's flying?"  
  
"No," he says shortly.  
  
You turn your head and lick a stripe up his throat. He makes a strangled noise, and the carpet wobbles under you.  
  
Whoops. Okay. That'd be why, then. You stop distracting him.


	14. How We Get Things Done In The Empire

You recognize the city of Heyton by the twin clock towers on the courthouse; you've never been there before, but it's the kind of thing people talk about. You try to calculate the carpet's speed from that, but since you don't know how far the Storm Palace was from shore -- you were flying over solid cloud for the first two hours -- the best you can come up with is 'really damn fast'.   
  
High summer is hot on the northern plains. You're grateful for the warmth as you begin to descend, but once the Prince brings the carpet down in the courthouse square it gets to be too much. The cobbles are shimmering. The soldiers and officials who come out to meet him look like they're trying to hurry, but they're sluggish and red-faced, suffering in their uniforms and court robes. You shed your rain cape and leave it behind. If anyone's got the balls to steal from the Prince's carpet, you can owe that officer an apology.  
  
The Prince briefed you on the way: all you have to do is sit and look secretarial, shuffle some papers, and confirm a series of prisoners as non-Rebels. You asked him what he expects you to do if you _do_ spot a Rebel. He just gave you a blank look. Clearly, he’s not asking you to betray your people. Which leaves you wondering what the hell is the point of having you here. Just getting you out of the Orphaner's way, maybe.  
  
Maybe all he wants is your company. This kind of administrative shit must be incredibly boring with no one to mutter sarcastic asides to.  
  
The magistrate's court isn't quite as roastingly hot as outside, but the air is stifling because all the windows are closed. The Prince looks cool and perfect, but you're sweating even before everyone's seated. The local functionaries seem to be even sweatier and more uncomfortable than wool robes in summer can account for. They look shifty. Nervous.  
  
Then the provincial governor shows up, and now you _know_ the Prince is playing politics. The guy looks like he's going to his own execution instead of presiding over someone else's. His tan skin blanches grayish-yellow when he sees the Prince. His bow is extremely shaky.  
  
"Your Highness," he gulps. "We are deeply honored. May we ask to what we owe the pleasure of your presence?"  
  
You decide you don't like him. He uses the royal 'we'. Even the Prince doesn't use the royal 'we'.  
  
"My intelligence officer will identify the Rebels among your prisoners," the Prince says with barely-concealed boredom, as if the whole business is a chore.  
  
"Your Highness, _all_ the prisoners scheduled for trial today... are..." The governor trails off under the Prince's cool stare.  
  
"Proceed," the Prince says.  
  
They proceed. It actually goes faster than you'd feared; trying people in batches is one of the Empire's most-hated habits, but when you're acquitting everyone it sure does speed things up. Every time they march in a string of five or six chained captives, you study them with apparent care, consult your papers -- actually your list of the books you've eliminated for the cipher -- and shake your head. The Prince waves his hand and commands the prisoners released.  
  
As this goes on, curious people filter in until all the seats are packed and there's a crowd standing at the back. Courthouse employees at first, then guards, and a few people you're pretty sure are just random civilians who happened to wander by and hear something big was going down. The magistrates squirm and squirm. The governor looks grayer and grayer.  
  
Then, in the twelfth batch, you spot Tiger. And she spots you.  
  
She's supposed to be with Rider, helping him marshal his animal army. What the hell is she doing here? How the hell did she get captured? Did the Prince know she was here? What the fuck is going on?  
  
She's not a trained operative. She can't keep her feelings off her face. Her eyes widen when she sees you, and her mouth drops open. It might be mistaken for awe at the sight of the Prince as long as she keeps quiet. Silently begging her not to say anything, you repeat the exact same performance you gave for the previous eleven batches: consult list, study prisoners, shake head.  
  
"Release them," the Prince says blandly. He yawns.  
  
Tiger shoots you a disbelieving look over her shoulder as the string shuffles toward the bailiff with the keys. You make sure you're not seen noticing it.  
  
When they run out of prisoners, the Prince doesn't hang around to talk to anyone, even though the governor and a few others try as hard as they dare to get his attention. You follow him out into the gathering dusk, across the square -- past the carpet, which is more heavily guarded than it probably needs to be -- and out to the street, where a fancy coach with someone else's crest is waiting. Someone's trying to butter him up. You hope for an explanation once you're inside, but he regally ignores you during the short ride, and all through the business of getting situated in the diplomatic suite of an inn so fancy it doesn't even have a sign out front.  
  
Only once the porters and maids and kowtowing owners have been shooed out, and he's gone around and made a quick, businesslike magical gesture to every wall in the place, does he relax.  
  
"And that's how we get things done in the Empire," he sighs as he drops heavily into a brocaded armchair.  
  
You pull off your neckcloth and start undoing jacket buttons as fast as you can. This fucking heat is killing you. "What exactly did we just get done?"  
  
"Got rid of Zelwald, for starters. The governor?" he prompts when you look blank. "They only addressed him by name ten thousand times."  
  
"I'm wondering how that got rid of him. Embarrassed him, yes --"  
  
"He'll be assassinated before the week is out. There'll be a squabble, which is always a little messy, but whoever's in the hot seat when the dust settles is going to be a lot clearer on the difference between political and personal."  
  
Finally free of jacket, boots, and socks, and with your shirt unbuttoned enough that you can flap it for a breeze, you sprawl on a couch. Let your head loll over the arm and look at him upside down. "Go on," you prompt.  
  
He gives a dismissive wave. "Long story short, Zelwald has a horde of unscrupulous informers with hungry pockets, and anyone who looks at him funny tends to fall afoul of them. He's been hanging whistleblowers and the unlucky poor by the hundreds, and generated a grand total of no useful intel whatsoever. This is not an efficient model of government."  
  
"But you couldn't just oust him because...?"  
  
"Oh, I could. There could be corruption trials and presentation of evidence and the whole nine yards. But it'd take months, and that idiot's hamhanded, self-serving bullshit has already created enough discontent to interest your side's recruiters. The last thing I need is an uprising right in the Empire's breadbasket. This province alone supplies thirty-eight percent of the Imperial Army's rations, did you know that?"  
  
You blink at him. Rebel recruiters. That might explain Tiger's presence. But does he know...?  
  
"Do you want to go talk to her?" he says innocently.  
  
Yep, he knows. You swallow hard and don't answer.  
  
"It's all right, Sol. You don't know anything that'll still be critical by the time she can bring it to the Sufferer, and I know you'll come back. Go ahead."  
  
You slowly sit up, stare at him incredulously.  
  
He gives you a small smile. "Just keep it quiet, will you? If you're seen talking to her, I suppose you can hint to someone that she's one of my agents, but it's tidier just to avoid the question in the first place."  
  
You don't get it. Is this part of his strategy? Or is he compromised enough to be offering you tactical concessions for emotional reasons? You're not about to argue, though. Even while you rack your brain for an explanation, you're putting yourself back in order. Can't walk out of here looking like you've been making out, especially since you haven't, more's the pity.  
  
As you button your jacket, he straightens up and offers you something that wasn't in his hand before: a flat leather case about as long as your forearm. "Night in an unfamiliar city can be dangerous," he says, "even when you're not hunting for jumpy agents who may or may not rush to judgement."  
  
You open the case. Inside, nestled in white velvet, are two beautiful little leaf daggers with weighted handles, made of some oil-rainbowed black metal, with silver runes inset down the spines. That black-and-silver combo is familiar; you've seen it before on the weapons of several of the Taken. Anvil's arrows, for instance. These are anti-mage blades. You raise your eyes to stare ten thousand questions at the Prince.  
  
"You prefer thrown weapons, don't you? They’re enchanted to come back to you. Just beckon and think ‘come’ and they’ll jump into your hands."  
  
You swallow hard. Of all the stupid things -- you're getting choked up over a brace of throwing knives. But he just handed you a weapon capable of taking him out, right after indicating that you can walk out of here, go meet a Rebel contact, and he's just going to have faith you'll come back -- where the hell does he get off _trusting_ you like this?  
  
You close the case and offer it back to him. "Hang on to it for me. If I do get to talk to her, chances are she'll want me to disarm first, and I -- wouldn't want to lose these."  
  
Now it's his turn to look too emotional for the situation. He nods jerkily as he sets the case on his knees. He spreads his hands on its surface as if it's an animal that might try to escape if he doesn't reassure it. "Would you... like some kind of... more replaceable armament?"  
  
"If someone's dumb enough to pick a fight with me I'll just take theirs." You give him a lopsided smile. He nods reluctantly.  
  
You both understand what's being said here. If you don't come back, he wants to be sure it's because you made a choice to run. He wants to know if he's been abandoned. You want to assure him you won't, you wouldn't, but you're not sure if that's even your choice to make. This whole thing is messy and confusing and probably jinxed, you're both going to wreck yourselves on reality's rocky shore sooner or later, but neither of you is going to turn aside.  
  
Leaning your hands on the arms of his chair, you bend down and kiss him -- just for luck, just a placeholder, not nearly long enough or deep enough to be a goodbye. Then you leave without saying anything, and he doesn't say anything as you go.


	15. It's Complicated

Since you don't know the city, and you certainly can't make any useful contacts while wearing the Prince's badge, you just wander around and hope Tiger has been keeping an eye on your location. It's what you'd do -- or rather, you'd hire some unobtrusive civilians to do it. Not street kids, not in a posh neighborhood like this, but there's a teahouse with a terrace just down the street, and a couple of fiacres resting their horses and waiting for fares. Tiger's not a spy, though. She's smart and crafty, but she doesn't have the training.  
  
Knowing her, she's lurking on a rooftop somewhere, watching you herself. That is, assuming she didn't just get the hell out of town as soon as they took the chains off.  
  
Once you've done enough meandering that she or her watchers have had a fair chance, you start looking for somewhere you can talk unobserved. You'd really prefer not to use an alley; they're so dirty, and not nearly as private as people think. You don't spot anything better, though, so in the end you pick the least distasteful alley of the bunch: a winding, brick-paved stairway connecting two streets on the slope above the river, too steep for horses but apparently well-used enough not to end up an abode for stray dogs and bums. It still smells a little like piss, though.  
  
You've only been sitting on the steps a few minutes when you hear the faintest scuff behind you. You don't move, and a second later a chilly point presses against the back of your neck.  
  
"Give me one good reason I shouldn't just claw your spine out," Tiger hisses.  
  
"I'm here to answer questions, not ask them," you reply calmly.  
  
"And why should I believe anything you say?"  
  
"Any intel I give you has to be verified anyway. That's just basic tradecraft. Ask Hawkeye."  
  
She makes a skeptical humming noise; the blade doesn't leave your neck. "Stand up. Hands out at your sides." She pats you down expertly, checking all the places where you usually hide weapons. She finds the penknife in the slit you cut at the back of your waistband, and after trying unsuccessfully to tease it out with one hand, she says, "What good's that if you can't draw it?"  
  
Her reproving tone warms your heart. Despite the cold point at the nape of your neck -- quite probably a punch dagger, if she was able to find an example of her favorite weapon in the short time she's been free, and she's no doubt willing and ready to ram it right between your cervical vertebrae if you make a hostile move -- she's still thinking like a comrade.  
  
"You want me to --?"  
  
"Keep it," she sighs, and steps back. You wait a moment, then turn around.  
  
She's a few steps up, crouched on her haunches like a feral child. Even in this tense atmosphere, it's good to see her. She's thin and filthy, still wearing prison rags, but she burns bright with the will to survive. She studies you intently, eyes flicking over your face and clothing, and eventually her distrust softens just a shade, making room for pain and worry.  
  
"Sollux, what the hell is going on?" she demands. "We thought you were dead! Karkat's been so sad! Are you really a turncoat?"  
  
You shake your head. "It's more complicated than that."  
  
"Simplify it!"  
  
"The Prince kidnapped me to break a cipher for him. He never dug through my brain for secrets, or even really asked me anything. We've reached a kind of weird understanding. I've made it clear I won't work against the Rebels, but I'll help him against Resurrectionists -- or corrupt officials, I guess, though I didn't know that was what we were here for until after. He just told me to confirm none of the prisoners were Rebels so he could let them go." You crack a crooked smile at her skeptical look. "I don't know whether to be glad I got you out, or apologize for putting a kink in your recruitment efforts by helping the Prince get rid of Zelwald."  
  
She tilts her head, brow furrowing. "But here you are now. Did you escape?"  
  
"No. He said I could go talk to you if I want. It's not so I'd lead him to you," you add as she reflexively glances around. "He can't arrest you now, at least not in this city; it'd undermine his rebuke of the governor if one of today's prisoners turned out to be a Rebel after all. Not that you should stick around any longer than you have to."  
  
"He just let you _go_?"  
  
"He... knows I'll come back."  
  
" _Why?_ " Disbelief and anger. "Sollux, why would you go back? Whatever hold he has on you, me and Rider can help. At least let us try!"  
  
Temptation hits you like a fist to the gut. God, you weren't ready. You expected to waver, but this _hurts_. The faces of your friends flicker through your mind, and each one punches bleeding holes in your heart. Hawkeye, who gets your jokes; Rider, sweet and stubborn; Karkat -- Karkat, goddamnit, Karkat might as well be your fucking brother and you are _not_ up to losing another sibling. You can't _breathe_ with how much you miss him.  
  
For a long, aching moment, you let yourself consider going with her. It's possible you'd get away clean. The Prince can't afford to kick up dirt here. Hell, he might not even look for you, he's half subverted already --  
  
And that's why you're staying.  
  
When it comes down to the wire, you're a spy through and through. You have a chance to turn the second most powerful man in the Empire, and you're not about to abort the operation just because you're homesick, any more than you're going to switch sides for love.  
  
You take off your glasses and squeeze the bridge of your nose. You hold the images of your friends for one breath, and then you breathe out. You straighten and put your glasses back on.  
  
"The Resurrectionists are becoming a real problem," you say calmly, "and the Orphaner is ignoring them." It would be idiotic to say out loud what you really hope to accomplish, and Tiger's not devious enough to read it between the lines, so you have to give her _something_. "Also, the Prince and the Titan don't get along, and it's the Titan who's leading the main push against the Rebels. I think I can do something useful by staying."  
  
Tiger shakes her head sharply, rejecting. "None of this makes any sense. Can't you see it makes no sense? He must've done something to your head. I bet he put a spell on you. Come home with me, I bet Hawkeye can break it."  
  
"No. I've gone over my options multiple times. These are muddy waters, and maybe I'm wrong, but my logical conclusion is that sticking with the Prince is the right move here."  
  
"But if it was a spell you wouldn't --"  
  
"I know what I'm doing. Please. Just. Tell Karkat what I said. Especially about Titan being the enemy he needs to focus on. And that I'm okay. The Prince treats me like a valuable asset, I'm not getting tortured or anything. And... and tell him we're still friends. He always fucking doubts me, the asshole." You take a steadying breath. “Is everyone... did we lose anybody?”  
  
“You know I can’t tell you anything about us,” she says, voice soft with distress. “Not if you’re going back to the Prince.” She starts to turn away.  
  
"Wait," you add quickly. Tiger turns back with her lips pressed tight; grief or anger, maybe both. "Tell Black Rose to have a look at my papers. There's a trunk of papers under my cot at the fort. There might be something we -- you -- can use against the Orphaner. I was looking at civil records trying to find True Names, but I didn't understand the magic shit, and maybe she will."  
  
"Maybe she'll find something we can use against the Prince," Tiger suggests pointedly. She doesn't even pretend to wait for you to respond; your hesitation tells her everything. "Oh, Sollux," she says quietly. "Really?"  
  
"Everything I told you is true," you protest.  
  
"Everything you _didn't_ tell me makes it all so much clearer. Does he make you happy?"  
  
The question takes you aback. "How does that matter?"  
  
"You are being completely stupid on purpose," she scolds, and you think this means she forgives you. "If you're going to put yourself through this kind of nonsense for someone, he _better_ make you happy."  
  
"I... think he would, if we were on the same side. I guess he does, as much as it's possible. That has no bearing on whether my logic is sound, though."  
  
She sighs with fond irritation. She closes the distance between you for a brief hug, but darts away before you can properly hug back. "Good luck, Sollux," she says.  
  
"Goobluck, Sollut!" echoes another voice, mockingly cheerful, slurred like a drunk's. You spin as the speaker reveals himself with a sudden unleashing of stomach-churning Taken aura.   
  
As tall as you and even thinner, wearing a helmet that hides his eyes but not his manic grin or the scars that run down his cheeks like tears, he blocks the upper end of the alley. He throws up his arms like a child celebrating victory in some foolish game, and his hands fill with colored sparks.  
  
"Luck's fucked, Sollip!" he crows happily.


	16. Captor, Captive

Tiger drops into a crouch, knife at the ready. "You said --"  
  
"That's Shatter, he's one of Titan's." You edge aside to give her room to fight, as if that's going to do any good against a mage. "I don't know why he's here." Damn it, why didn't you bring those knives? Sure, Tiger would've taken them, but maybe she'd give them back, or maybe the returning enchantment would still work if --  
  
You flex your hands and think it as hard as you can: _COME!_ as if calling an unruly dog.  
  
Nothing happens, of course.  
  
"Split up," Tiger snaps, and runs up the wall, going for one of those impossible-looking stunts she likes to use whenever there's anything to climb on.  
  
You weren't expecting it, because what the fuck are you supposed to do? Punch a deathmage in the face? But it's not like your other options are a whole lot more enticing, so a heartbeat after you should've moved you throw yourself forward as if it's really possible for you to charge up the steps and engage Shatter hand-to-hand.  
  
The Taken brings his hands down, and his sparks snap out like whips, making a sound like ripping sheet metal. One whip knocks Tiger off the wall; the other strikes just where you were about to put your foot, and dodging it makes you miss the next step and go sprawling.  
  
Shatter doesn't finish you off, though. He just stands there, cackling like he told a dirty joke.  
  
Tiger wobbles to her feet, snarling. "Get up, Sollux. We're not done."  
  
Then she straightens and drops her knife, face going blank.  
  
Which is when you remember Shatter never works alone. He never goes anywhere without -- you whirl to face downhill, and even though you expect to see the other Taken, you still yelp at how close he got while you were distracted by Shatter's light show.  
  
Smiling sweetly with his stitched-together lips, Hush tilts his head as if inviting you to share your opinion.  
  
"The Prince --" you begin.  
  
Pretty colors! They smell like burning feathers, but it's okay, this music is your favorite.  
  
* * *  
  
It's dark. Your head hurts. Your stomach is churning, and your mouth tastes like ozone. Sticky shreds of Hush's spell still cling to your mind. Your efforts to assess your situation are hindered by the way part of you is still trying to make sense of that synesthetic barrage.  
  
You do not need to work out whether the cold cider bells were the ridiculously tall flowers trying to talk to you. You need to work out whether your eyes are open or closed, whether you're sitting up or lying down.  
  
Deep breaths. Tense and stretch every muscle you can find. Blink and swallow.  
  
You put it together little by little. Your eyes are open, it's just dark. You're sitting up with your back against something like a beam or post, and your hands are looped behind it, tied with something smooth that has no useful give to it. After feeling at it a bit you conclude it's your neckcloth. Which is silk, so you're not going to rip it by pulling. You're also barefoot, for some reason.  
  
The space you're in is oddly cold and clammy for the season. Underground? No, there's a smell, a ribbony yellow-green smell -- _goddamnit, stop that_ \-- a smell of rot and vegetation that says outdoors and water. Lots of water, enough to give everything a fishy tint. No wave sounds, though, no rocking, no salt smell...  
  
Oh. Of course. The river. You're near the river, possibly on it. Maybe you haven't even left Heyton.  
  
It's around then that you finally come all the way awake and remember everything that led up to this. Your first reaction is to panic because the Prince is going to think you left him, and he's going to wallow in theatrical despondency instead of coming to save your ass. This is stupid and you refuse to waste energy on it. 'No one can get me out of this but me' is one of the axioms of a spy's life. If he's wasting away in heartbreak when you finally drag yourself back to him, you can kick him for it then.  
  
You hitch yourself up to a less slumped position and press your back against the post to see if there's any wobble to it. Sadly, it's firmly attached, but you can feel the lump of your penknife at your waist. Well, that makes things a lot simpler...  
  
You can't reach it.  
  
The fucking post is in the way. No matter how you twist your body and your arms, you can't get your hands in position to get that knife. After several minutes of effort leaves you sweaty and sore, you bonk your head against the post in frustration, swearing under your breath. Why couldn't you have hidden the damn thing somewhere else? But your next choice would've been your boot, and your captors took those.  
  
Could be worse. They could've taken your pants.  
  
Oh, hey. There's an idea.  
  
Taking your pants off in this position is not the easiest thing you've ever done. You wish they didn't fit so well, and that things weren't so damp in here -- and while you're at it, you wish you weren't here at all, because wishing is really productive and solves everything. But you're flexible, and have agile toes, and not much of an ass. Eventually you manage to squirm out of them. And halfway out of your underwear, which is extra awesome when it turns out you're sitting on some truly disgusting moldy sacking.  
  
Carefully, carefully, you pass your pants from your toes to your hands, inch the fabric through your half-numb fingers until you find the waistband, and tease the knife out of it. After all that, it's almost disappointing how easily the silk parts. You shake blood back into your hands and flex your fingers. No harm done. You can probably pick a lock if you have to, you'll just be a bit slow.   
  
You get dressed and grope your way around the room in search of a door. This seems to be a storeroom; there are crates and barrels crowded just beyond where you could've reached them with your feet when you were tied up, as if your captors shoved them aside to keep you from messing with them. The ceiling is low enough that you have to be cautious not to smack your head on overhead beams. You find a cold lantern hanging from a hook, but when you shake it you don't hear any oil sloshing, so you leave it be. Finally you find the door. You explore it with careful fingers, mind full of options for if it's a lock too small for your knife, or a heavy bar, or --  
  
But it's just held with a hook latch on the outside. You can see the wire through the gap where a faint thread of light comes through. You poke your knife through the crack and flip it, and the door swings silently open.  
  
Either they are not taking you even a little bit seriously, or they don't give a damn whether you get out of their slimy pantry.  
  
You find yourself in a kitchen; you can see it by the faint glow coming through a couple of small, high windows. The way all the cooking gear is secured to the wall and all the cabinets have hook latches on them confirms your guess that you're on a boat. There's a table and benches that could seat maybe six or eight people; a small boat, then, but big enough to need a live-in crew. The stove is cold to the touch -- no one cooked supper today. Hey, maybe you're lucky enough to be docked in Heyton instead of fifty miles downriver.  
  
There's a steep little stair leading up to a door, and another door at the other end of the room. You try door number two first. It leads to a vast open space with wooden support posts in two rows, twin to the room you woke up in but empty and three times as long. Those little portholes are here too, which gives you just enough light to make out a little-stair-up-to-a-door that matches the one behind you.  
  
An unloaded river barge, not currently crewed, but in use recently enough that the crew's food supplies are still on board. That doesn't sound like the kind of hideout Titan would use. So far you feel things could be a whole lot worse, but you have basically no idea what the fuck is going on, so it's a bit early to relax.  
  
You creep up the stairs from the kitchen, careful not to let them squeak. You hear voices outside. You put your ear to the door and listen.  
  
"He came looking for you? That's kind of sweet, in a horrible way."  
  
"Heheh, it's like he sped, hey, I'm deslolate withouts my bets buggy Shatter, I'll go fuck him inthe soul and we can be malibmigant plabes on teh lambskate gotether! Expect for the saying it park becups he dunzen talk."  
  
"I didn't actually understand most of that, but it sounds like you're really close."  
  
"Any closter and we'd nevever get antything done, eheheh."  
  
Tiger... is talking about relationships with Shatter. You're not sure what the point of that is, but it's certainly better than being tortured for her secrets. You wish you dared open the door and look. Unfortunately, it sounds like they're nearby, so there's a good chance Shatter would see you.  
  
"Do you like working for the Titan, though?"  
  
"No, fuck that ffucksucking dogfuckter, I hope he gests his tongue stuck in Orkaner's apsehole," Shatter snickers, and then he just sort of... doesn't stop snickering.  
  
You ease back down the stairs. At least you know where _that_ one is. You have a feeling Hush will be a little harder to avoid.


	17. Little Fish

It occurs to you to latch the storeroom door. Maybe if they come to check on you and find the door doesn't appear to have been forced, they'll waste time looking for you inside; hiding among the barrels in hope of ambushing your jailer isn't an outright stupid tactic. It's not your style, but they don't know that.  
  
You, if you conclude you can't sneak out, are more likely to play nice and look for a logical or social angle to work; pretty much just what you've been doing with the Prince, in fact, except that you are absolutely not going to bone any Taken, because you are not a necrophiliac. And while you don't know the limits of Titan's self-restraint-spraining philandermancy, you're sure as hell not going to fall for him if even he does get into your pants. That sleazeweasel's only redeeming quality is how much he looks like his brother.  
  
That means taking an iron skillet off the wall for a weapon isn't an option, but that's probably a bad idea anyway. It's heavy, it's too easy to make noise with it, and Taken are no more vulnerable to blunt trauma than they are to regular unenchanted weapons.  
  
God _damn_ you wish you'd brought those knives.  
  
Even though you're a little embarrassed at yourself for it, you try it again: open your hands and think _come_. The nothing you expected occurs. Maybe you're out of range. Maybe the Prince put the box back in whatever otherspace he keeps conjuring things from. Maybe you're doing it wrong. Enchantments are notoriously finicky; even a non-mage like you knows that. You think back. 'Come' was the word he told you to think, right? Just think it, you don't have to say it out loud? Yeah -- beckon and --  
  
Beckon. Just opening your hands like you expect something to drop into them isn't the same thing. All right, what the hell. You try it again, hooking your fingers. Nope. Are there multiple ways to beckon? 'As if calling a dog' is what you were thinking earlier -- you don't do the finger-hooky thing for a dog, do you? No, you sort of curl all your fingers like -- _come_.  
  
You feel... something.  
  
It's faint, and you have no clue what sense you felt it with. It's a bit like ringing a bell and hearing another bell pick up the tone, or... no, more like reeling in a fishing line and feeling a little resistance on it.  
  
You do it again, and again there's a nibble on the line, and again the knives do not appear in your hands.  
  
This is probably a waste of time. Shatter could come down here any minute. You need to quit dicking around and find a way to achieve something useful.  
  
You go through the cargo hold. It feels weird to move so slowly and cautiously in such a big, open space, but you don't need to fall through a rotten plank or have something squeak loudly enough for someone on deck to hear. The door at the far end is locked, but your hands have recovered by now and you make quick work of it. It faces the port side, and the barge is long, so unless someone's right outside it won't be visible from the rest of the boat. You ease it open a crack and peer through.  
  
Bare deck; nothing and no one between you and the rail. No city lights beyond. The barge is underway. No telling how far it's traveled. Which sucks, but on the other hand, if you were willing to abandon Tiger it sure would be easy to slip over the side and vanish in the darkness.  
  
For a moment, you try to persuade yourself to do it. Maybe you can ask the Prince to help her. What else are you going to do, pull off a swashbuckling rescue? Because facing two Taken unarmed worked so well last time. But even if Titan's not here, he's probably on the way, and once he's ransacked her head it'll be too late. He'll know everything, and he'll probably kill her.  
  
Besides, what if you go to the Prince for help and he declines? You wouldn't be able to forgive him. Or yourself.  
  
You slip out of the stair kiosk and crouch in its shadow, feeling the still-hot night baking the chill of belowdecks out of your bones. There's no moon. There are flickering star-reflections on the river, but you can't tell how far it is to shore. Looking aft, past the wheelhouse, you can make out a glow on the clouds that's probably the reflection of Heyton's lights. You can't see the lights themselves, aside from a couple pinpricks that might be isolated farms. You do a quick calculation, and though you have to make some guesses -- how far it is from the inn to the outskirts where the lights give out, how high off the water your vantage point is, how high those clouds are -- you conclude you're at least ten miles downstream. If you dove for freedom now, it'd take all night to reach the Prince. Going for help is not an option.  
  
There are no lamps lit anywhere on the boat. The wheelhouse windows are dark. Is this barge just... drifting? It's probably being steered by magic. Not really your concern, you guess. Your mission is getting Tiger away from Shatter.  
  
Right. Any minute now.  
  
A violet flicker lights the clouds upriver. It shows them much taller than you'd imagined, a real monster of a summer storm. You wait, but the thunder never comes. Too far away to hear. No need to factor rain into your plans, then, if you ever manage to _make_ any plans, rather than just squatting here like a scared bunny.   
  
_Think, Sollux. That is the one thing you are really good at, and you need to fucking do it right now. I don't care how tired you are or how much of Hush's fever dream is still sloshing around your brain. I don't care if you're scared. I don't care if you miss your evil boyfriend. You need to put all that extraneous shit down, dust off your hands, and make. A fucking. Plan._  
  
Okay, so the wheelhouse is unlit, but that doesn't mean no one's up there. For all you know, Hush can see in the dark. So crossing the long stretch of open deck between here and there might well be equivalent to sticking up your hands and shouting 'I surrender!' Once you get aft to where Shatter and Tiger are, you might be able to distract Shatter long enough for Tiger to escape. He's notoriously scatterbrained, and those whips of his seemed to have a limited range. You'll be able to at least take a better look at your options if you can just get up there without being spotted by whoever may or may not be steering.  
  
If you had those stupid knives, you could use them like climbing picks and edge along the outside of the boat. It'd be hard on your arms, but you could do it.  
  
More out of spite than hope, you try it one more time. Beckon. _Come_.  
  
The nibble on the line is stronger. Closer? Have you got a bite? Are those fucking things scooting down the street every time you call for them? If you keep doing it, will they plop into the river and swim to you? The image is sort of hilarious, and you have to bite down on a laugh. Well, one way to find out.  
  
You experiment with how long a pull to use, how long to pause in between, to keep things moving as smoothly as possible with minimum resistance. It takes ages, and it keeps flicking through your mind that maybe you're just imagining all this, maybe nothing's happening. Maybe you're just sitting here flapping your hands uselessly while Titan's Taken bring you closer and closer to whatever unpleasant fate they caught you for. You're no wizard, how are you even sensing this thing you think you're sensing? But you keep at it, because you don't know what else to do and -- doubts aside -- you're feeling _something_ when you make the correct gesture.  
  
Suddenly, at the end of one call, you see a couple of dark specks flick over the rail and fall to the deck. You beckon again. They dart to you like sparrows, like little fish, and drop into your hands.  
  
They're dripping. One has a slimy bit of weed skewered on its point. They really did swim downriver to you. It's all you can do not to laugh.  
  
You lean your head back against the wall, close your eyes, and breathe deep. God, you hate when things get like this. When the best plan you can come up with is 'get to the area of maximum fuckery, then improvise'. But at least you have the knives. You remember the Prince's face as he gave them to you. He's waiting for you. Maybe he saw the knives jumping out of their box and is worrying. Maybe he's even looking for you. But he doesn't know where you are, or he'd be here. So it's up to you.  
  
 _You can do this._  
  
You slip around the prow side of the kiosk, out of sight of the wheelhouse, and ease over the side.


	18. Luck On Credit

Getting aft turns out to be easier than you expected. Your clothes drag at you -- you wish you'd stripped down, the risk posed by leaving evidence of where you went seems trivial now -- but the river is warm and placid, if smelly, and the barge's speed almost matches the current's, so it's not that bad a swim.  
  
It's when you reach the stern that things get dicey.  
  
You can hear Tiger's and Shatter's voices clearly in the quiet, which means Shatter will hear any sound you make. The planking is in good repair and pretty tightly caulked, so you can't just slip your knives into the cracks, but if you stab them in hard you'll be too noisy. You have to wiggle them in carefully. Which gets increasingly difficult as more and more of your weight is out of the water and hanging on them.  
  
Thank fuck enchanted weapons are durable. Regular blades would probably bend or snap under this kind of abuse.  
  
The last couple feet are the hardest. You can't pull up enough to be pushing your weight down on one hand while you move the other, or you'll show yourself above the rail; you have to work overhead and then pull yourself up by main strength. At last, trying not to shake so hard from the effort that you work your handholds loose, you ease slowly up to take a peek.  
  
You find yourself looking at a stack of lumber. Looks like a disassembled siege engine at first glance, but why would they have...? Oh, it's probably a cargo crane. Whatever it is, it's between you and them. At this point you figure you've used up any luck the universe owed you, and now you're borrowing on credit. You pull yourself silently over the side and hunker down behind the sheltering jumble of wood to catch your breath, wait for your arms to stop trembling. You listen to the conversation with half an ear while you gather yourself.  
  
They're are talking about eating bugs. They sound like they're really getting along. You sincerely hope it's a ruse on Tiger's part and she's not genuinely making friends with Shatter, because you're about to do your level best to kill him.  
  
It seems to take forever for your arms to recover their strength, but when it's time to go, it feels like far too soon. This is such a terrible idea. You are so completely screwed.  
  
 _Really, Sollux? Doomed again? So what else is new?_   
  
You fill your lungs. Let your breath out slow.   
  
_Waiting won't make it better. Just fucking get it done._  
  
You dart out from cover, sacrificing stealth for speed. Take a fraction of a second to ascertain that Tiger is sitting on the deck, shackled to a cleat, and Shatter is standing, frozen mid-gesticulation as he sees you. You throw.  
  
Your tired arm betrays you. Instead of taking him in the soft part of the throat, the knife goes low and to the right, and your run of good fortune isn't sufficient to get it between his ribs; it sticks barely an inch into the meager meat of his skinny chest. But he howls like it took his eye out, and when summons his spark-whips, they look dimmer, weaker than before, particularly on that side.  
  
Your next throw goes sailing past his head; he hardly has to twitch to dodge it. He flicks his wrist, and there's that sound of ripping steel again. You bark " _Come!_ " and yank your invisible fishing line with everything you've got.  
  
The whip wraps around your ankle, searing like acid, then winks out. Shatter's mouth goes slack. He crumples slowly to his knees, then to all fours.  
  
Your second knife is buried heart-deep in his back.  
  
He bats weakly at the first knife, and it clatters to the deck. You call it to your hand and edge cautiously forward. He should be dead, not whimpering like a wounded animal and trying to stand up, but that's Taken for you. You don't know what he's still capable of. You need to finish the job, though. There's colored light writhing around his fingertips, dripping from his mouth and from under his visor. Another throw is iffy; you should cut his throat; can he control his zaps at all, or do you have a free shot?  
  
Then the night fills with pinwheels and you taste horseradish and scorched metal. Hush is here.  
  
You stab yourself in the leg.  
  
The spell breaks like a bone, an impact on your soul so heavy you have to fight not to puke. Holy _shit_ , these knives are fierce mojo if they hit a non-mage this hard.  
  
You stumble-turn to look for Hush. He's staring at Shatter, grief-stricken and furious, stitched lips twisting as if he's struggling to speak. He makes a terrible high moan through his nose. Now you know what it sounds like when someone with his mouth sewn shut tries to scream. His tormented eyes roll to you; he sees you're not spellbound. He snatches up a beam of tarred wood the size of a lamp post like it's a willow switch and takes a swat at you. You barely duck; his swing shatters one of the wheelhouse windows.  
  
 _Now what, smart guy?_ you ask yourself bitterly as he winds up to splatter you. _Take this knife out of my leg, he brainfucks me. Call the other one back, Shatter gets up. Jump in the river, Tiger's screwed._   
  
Hard decisions are a thing you know how to do. _Sorry, Tiger. I tried._ You throw yourself desperately at the rail.  
  
Your leg gives out.  
  
Time really does slow down when you're looking death in the face. That big wooden beam is still rebounding from the narrowest miss, the deck still thundering from the impact, you're feeling the nasty little _pop_ from the wrist you fell on but the pain hasn't hit yet. Everything is moving like glitter in a snow globe. Drifting, as if the next blow might never come, as if your impending head trauma might be optional.  
  
There's a sound like someone yanking a silk robe off the back of a chair, and Hush's chest sprouts a black arrow.  
  
Anvil lands beside you like he dropped from the sky, and catches the now-deadfalling beam just above your face. He flicks it aside as easily as Hush lifted it. He gives Hush's effort to wrench out the arrow a gently disapproving scowl, fits another magekiller to the string of his big black bow, and shoots the Taken point-blank in the heart.  
  
Hush slow-crumples and keeps twitching just like Shatter. God that's freaky to watch.  
  
"You could've stabbed yourself somewhere less incapacitating," Anvil points out. He offers you a hand. You unstab yourself and let him help you up.  
  
"I'll keep that in mind for next time," you say dryly. "Where the fuck did you come from, anyway?"  
  
"Mind your language," he says, and doesn't answer. You guess he doesn't have to; now that you're looking, you can see the corner of a carpet peeking over the flat roof of the wheelhouse.  
  
Why did he take the time to land it? You won't bother asking how he snuck up without anyone noticing him -- magic, obviously -- but if he had those seconds to spare he could've shot while airborne and saved you a bit of trouble. "How long have you been here? Why'd you wait until I was about to get smooshed?"  
  
"I don't appreciate your implication," he grumbles, hanging his bow at his back and drawing a short, heavy saber. "You were spoiling my sightline until you fell." Which is total bullshit, but whatever, you're in too much pain to argue with him. He steps toward Hush, who's slow-swimming in place like a spider in syrup. Raises the sword to finish him.  
  
"Wait!" Tiger cries. "Don't kill them!"  
  
You both turn to look at her in disbelief. You say blankly, "Are you _even_ serious with this."  
  
She looks up at Anvil, all gamine earnestness, as if she's never gutted a pikeman with a hatchet in her life. "You work for the Prince, right?"  
  
"I have that honor." He bows slightly, solemn and gracious. "I'm called Anvil. I'll free you from that shackle shortly, Miss, but first I must make sure of these men."  
  
"But they _hate_ the Titan! Couldn't you just bring them to your boss? I bet they'd be happy to switch over."  
  
"Sadly, the magic of Taking does not work that way. They're bound to their master whether they like him or not."  
  
"You don't think the Prince is good enough to unbind them? But I heard he's really talented!"  
  
Oh, she's _wily_. And Anvil's so obviously, utterly, helplessly smitten. It's an effort not to crack up.  
  
"My lord is the most capable mage alive. If anyone can do such a thing, he can. Captor, I presume you want your knife back?" In one smooth, brutal motion, he flips an arrow out of his quiver, kneels beside Shatter, and pins him to the deck with it like a beetle to a board.  
  
You wrench your knife free before Shatter's scream subsides, because you don't need to hear another one.   
  
"I do not envy you guys at all," Tiger says, wincing. "It must _suck_ not to be able to die."  
  
Anvil just gazes at her, the very image of adoration in ebony and sapphire, and you sincerely hope she wants a big, bloodthirsty, quasi-undead archer following her around, because now she's never getting rid of him.  
  
You clear your throat. "The Prince," you begin, and then aren't sure where you're going with that. It would be childish to demand why he didn't rescue you himself. But you are worn the fuck out, bleeding, hungry, thirsty, still queasy from breaking Hush's spell, you fail at swashbuckling rescues to the point where you were genuinely about to jump ship and leave Tiger to her fate, you have had the _worst night ever_ , and goddamn it, you want evil-boyfriend hugs _right fucking now_.  
  
"The Prince," Anvil says, "is ascertaining his brother's motives." He glances meaningfully at the lightning-flickering horizon.  
  
"Oh." You set your back against the wheelhouse wall and slide down it, too exhausted to care that you end up sitting on a piece of broken window glass. It's big and flat enough not to stab you in the ass, so you just do not give a shit. "That is the _best_ euphemism for a wizard battle."  
  
Anvil does that gracious little bow again. You think you're starting to kind of like the guy.


	19. Right As Rain

The storm comes to meet you on your way back upriver, but the Prince doesn't.  
  
Anvil tows the barge back with his carpet. It's probably faster than the sails, but still feels like an excruciating crawl. You're in a world of pain, even with your sprained wrist wrapped, your stabbed thigh bandaged, and your burned ankle soaking in a bucket of clean water. The occasional horribly quiet noises from Shatter and Hush -- now tied up in the wheelhouse, still skewered like gory lollipops -- do not make the trip any more pleasant.  
  
Tiger does her best. She's a sweetheart to her friends, however lethal she is to everyone else. She tries to keep you talking, and when you don't have much to say, she promises to keep watch while you catch a nap. Sleep is impossible right now, but you appreciate the offer. So you sit in silence and watch the storm roll down on you. The wind blows hot, then cold, and the surface of the river starts to whip up. When the rain hits, you turn your face up to it, open your mouth and drink the downpour.  
  
"Did he do this?" Tiger asks. "The Prince. Can they really control the weather?"  
  
"I think so." Any chance you had of sleeping is gone now, but the sound of the storm covers your conversation enough that Anvil won't overhear. "Only the Orphaner can control the hurricane around the Storm Palace, though. We left because he was on his way there. I think if he finds out the Prince has me he'll take me away; or the Prince is afraid he will."  
  
"Sollux..." She covers your hand with hers. It's small and callused and warm. "This romance won't end well for you."  
  
"I know." You silently beg her not to tempt you with escape again.  
  
She squeezes and lets go, giving you a wry grin. "So you'd better enjoy it in the meantime. I hope he's good in bed."  
  
You let out a laugh that's hardly bitter at all. "The thing is, I just plain _like_ him. He's selfish and immature, but he can be so sweet, and such a dork... I know it sounds weird to say this about a guy who would rather manipulate a town into assassinating their governor than waste time on a trial, but he's not a bad person. Under different circumstances..."  
  
"We'd all be better people," she finishes.  
  
You nod. After a pause, you add, "I'm sorry. I tried to jump ship and leave you."  
  
"Stupidbutt." She swats the back of your head hard enough to make you yelp a protest. " _After_ you took on Shatter and Hush for me. Only when it was jump or be killed. Besides, it turned out all right in the end. Anvil didn't show up for _my_ sake. Are you going soft?"  
  
"Maybe."  
  
"Good. I wish I had that option."  
  
She's got a point. "I wish we all did," you agree.  
  
You're in among the lights of Heyton now. It's hard to make out landmarks through the downpour, but you doubt there's much further to go. The rain's starting to be uncomfortably cold, making your leg tense up and hurt worse. You're not sure you'll be able to walk on it when the time comes.  
  
You wonder if the Prince is still fighting his brother. You refuse to imagine that he might not win.  
  
"About Shatter and Hush," you begin.  
  
"You think the Titan will forgive the Prince for stealing his Taken?" She smiles, big and innocent. "You think the Prince will pass up the chance to do it, while he's still mad at the Titan for kidnapping you?"  
  
You raise your eyebrows, impressed. It's not that you ever thought she was unintelligent, but she never struck you as a schemer. "You thought this up before Anvil told us about the brothers' little bitchfight. Considering they seem to be feuding for real now anyway, taking these two out of the picture might've made more sense."  
  
She shrugs. "Brothers fight. For all I know they'll laugh it off. This wedge will last longer, won't it? If Titan's busy dealing with the Prince, he won't be chafing _our_ asses, and maybe we can get something done."  
  
"And he'll have two fewer Taken to pester you with."  
  
"Exactly. What do you think, Mister Spy Guy? Good idea?"  
  
"Good idea," you say warmly, and she beams, proud of herself. "I hope it works. I'll help it work if I can."  
  
Anvil lands on an empty dock and hauls the barge in hand over hand to tie it up, as if it's as light as a rowboat. Taken are all monstrously strong, but this guy is ridiculous. Tiger helps you stand, props you against the rail, and, though you know for a fact she can not only get from boat to dock on her own but do a backflip on the way, lets Anvil help her off the barge like a duchess getting out of a carriage. You stand there studying the rail, trying to figure out how to get over it without reopening the gash in your leg, until Anvil picks you up like a doll and sets you on the dock.  
  
When you turn to look back, the barge has vanished.  
  
"I've hidden it," Anvil explains. "I must deliver you to the Prince's rooms before dealing with them." To Tiger he adds, "My only orders regarding you were to ensure they could not use you to justify the governor's mass arrests. I would be happier if I could personally fly you out of the city once I've ensured Captor's safety, but you have little reason to trust me. If you wish to walk away now, I won't stop you."  
  
She cocks her head at him, studying him in the frank manner of children and cats, then sticks her hand out. "I go by Tiger. I'd appreciate a ride."  
  
His enormous, polished-mahogany hand gently envelops her small, grubby one; he looks like he won every lottery in the world at once. Tiger, for her part, is looking at him as if she has unexpectedly tamed a dragon and can't wait to go for a ride. The handshake lingers long past politeness. You don't want to interrupt their Moment by fainting, so you go flop down on the carpet. It squelches.  
  
"Ah. Yes. So," Anvil says eventually. He gestures invitation. "Miss Tiger, if you would?"  
  
"This'll be my first carpet ride!"  
  
"Would that it were under pleasanter circumstances."  
  
"Shoosh, I bet it'll still be awesome."  
  
You do not make gagging sounds and puke faces, because you are an adult and you do have some self-restraint. You just lie there on the soaking wet carpet and get rained on until they join you. Anvil doesn't make you move, for which you're grateful.  
  
At the inn, he leaves the carpet in the street, and he picks you up and carries you. It crosses your mind to object, but if dignity means having to stand on this throbbing leg and screaming ankle, fuck dignity. The old woman dozing at the concierge desk doesn't seem to see you at all, not even when you pass right in front of her. More of Anvil's concealing magic. You wonder if he's concealed his and Tiger's drippy footprints. If not, that poor clerk's going to be really puzzled when she notices.  
  
The Prince's suite is dark and empty. The strength of the disappointment that comes over you is a sign of how worn out you are. If you weren't exhausted, you wouldn't admit to yourself how acutely you yearn for the Prince to be here, let alone mumble-fuss about it out loud so that Tiger laughs at you while Anvil sets you down on a couch. You wonder if the inn's owner will have the balls to charge the Prince for the ruined brocade.  
  
"Don't let anyone in," Anvil cautions.  
  
"Do I _look_ like I can answer the fucking door?" you whine.  
  
A scowl begins to gather on his brow, but dissipates when Tiger enters his field of view. She's dug up a bottle from somewhere, and filled a large teacup with something that probably ought to be drunk from a thimble. "Bless you," you say as you take it.  
  
"We already said goodbye and good luck, didn't we?" She pats your shoulder. "I'm glad you're not dead."  
  
"Me too." You muster a grin for her. You apply yourself to the liquor. When you look up, they're gone.  
  
It's very weird, for a little while, wondering if they're still there but invisible, or whether you spaced out long enough not to notice them going out, but eventually your soggy brain accepts that this question is not worth chewing at and lets it go. You make a muzzy attempt to sort out the night's events; was Titan primarily after you or Tiger? Why was he in the area at all, and why did he bring those particular Taken? Did he know the Prince would be here? Did he know about Anvil? Why was Anvil here -- did he somehow come with you unobserved, or was he in place already? How did he find you? But your mind is shutting down, and you can't string two thoughts together.  
  
You don't know how long you've been lying there playing with your empty teacup when the Prince comes in. He just walks in like a normal person, shaking out his wet cloak, hair dripping. He comes straight to you, drops to his knees beside the couch, and takes your face in his hands.  
  
"Don't ever leave me like that again," he says hoarsely.  
  
"That is _such_ a dumb thing to say," you grumble. You fist your good hand in his collar and haul him down to you. His kiss is quietly frantic at first, and there's a trembling in his hands. You press your hand between his shoulderblades, in the dry warmth where his cloak covered. Keep him close, keep him with you. Tremor by tremor, he relaxes, until at last he breaks the kiss to rest his cheek on your chest.  
  
"You're soaking wet," he points out.  
  
You give him a disbelieving look, because _duh_ , whose fault is that? The corner of his mouth twitches. You realize he's messing with you and crack a grin. He starts to giggle. The absurdity of this whole business finally catches up with you and makes you snicker. You don't so much laugh together as alternate weary cackles as you both process where you are and what you've done. How he's made an enemy of his brother, or the other way around; how neither of you is truly on one side of this war or the other anymore; how beat-up you are, how pale and drawn he looks, the way you yelp when he jostles your injuries, the way his wet hair curls as it dries, the way rain still lashes the windows long after he doesn't need the storm anymore. The whole thing is just completely fucking silly at this point.  
  
You lie there, trading exhausted laugher back and forth, for a long time. When you finally wind down, you have this preposterous, unrealistic certainty that you are somehow going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [there is now a [side story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1010694) describing what happened between the Prince and the Titan while Sollux was on the barge.]


	20. The Comforts of Civilization

Eventually, you say, "You thought I left you?" Getting ready to be irritated. 

"No."

 "You said, 'Don't ever --'"

 "I was just bein' stupid, like you said. I was already worried because you were takin' so long, an' then your knives got restless an' I kinda freaked out." He tenderly takes your glasses and sets them aside. You mostly forgot you were wearing them, even rain-smeared as they were, but now you can see his expression better, and it's so sincere it's almost comical. "Even if they hadn't, I woulda searched for you. I knew you were plannin' on comin' back." 

"You sent Anvil? Had him follow the knives?"

"I woulda come myself if I could, Sol, I swear. But when I started lookin' around I smelled Titan's meddlin' an' I had to deal with him. You can't just let Titan run with a scheme, he _ruins_ things. If you were bait for a trap I wanted to have him by the balls when it got sprung, make sure I had leverage to get it _un_ sprung."

"It's fine," you say, even though it's not. What are you going to do, complain? Tactically, he made the right choice. "We captured Hush and Shatter. Anvil and I did."

"I know," he says, and changes the subject. "Do you want a doctor?"

"Nah. Just a dry bed and a change of bandages, I guess. These are soaked."

"You're cold," he points out. "A hot bath?"

That sounds like a lot of trouble, until you remember he can marshal an army of servants at a word. You nod. He kisses you one more time and then goes to make it happen.

He sits near you as people start to scurry about with fresh candles and hot water and so forth. Though he's not quite within arm's reach, and makes no affectionate gestures, he's efficiently placed himself so that no one can approach you without stepping over his stretched-out legs. Which, of course, no one would ever do. Conscious of his protection, you almost manage to doze off, but between one nod the next a tray of steaming food appears, which interests you more than sleep. The Prince moves his legs so that one of the servants can bring you a dish of -- well, you're not sure exactly what it is. Rich people food. You're pretty sure this is a duck breast, and at least some of these artfully arranged circles coated with butter and green flecks are potato. You eat it all, even the stuff you don't recognize.

It's a lot nicer than the unrecognizable food you've eaten in the past, that's for sure.

At last a matronly chambermaid curtseys deeply to the Prince and says, "Your bath is ready, Your Highness."

He waves her toward you. "It's for my secretary. Help him undress."

"I can do it myself," you grumble.

"Nonsense. That wrist is sprained. How will you untie the bandage? Let them assist you, it's what they're here to do."

You're perfectly capable of untying knots one-handed, but there's no profit in snarking off at him in front of people. "Yes, sir," you say instead, and start levering yourself upright. Two sturdy footmen hurry to help.

Bathing in company is not a new experience. What you're used to, though, involves a lot more splashing, ducking, and soap-throwing, and the water's usually a lot colder. Bizarre as it feels to have several people helping you, it sure does make things easier. You wouldn't have enjoyed getting your pants off alone in your condition.

The stab wound on your leg looks terrible. It's red and puffy already, and doesn't appear to be closing. You refuse to let your helpers clean it for you; you'd probably punch them if they touched it. You take the cloth and do it yourself, hissing through your teeth at the sting of soap, while a boy with his sleeves pinned up scrubs your back. You let them do something flowery-smelling to your hair, but you draw the line at skin lotions. No, not even a cream to soften the scar on your face. That scar's five years old, it's not like they can make it heal pretty now.

They help you out at last, set you on a cushioned stool to towel you dry. You beckon the older of the male servants. "Is there a sewing kit around here? I could use a couple stitches."

"I believe Mistress Varney has one, milord, but wouldn't you prefer we fetch a physician to do it?"

"No. Just an upholstery needle and a yard of silk thread. I'll do it myself if you won't." You hesitate to endure a wave of dizziness, then add, "And I'm not a lord." But he's already gone.

The boy helps you into a clean pair of drawers and nightshirt you don't remember bringing. Maybe they're the Prince's. That would be hilarious. While the two of you are waiting for the other guy to come back, he says tentatively, "Sir?"

"Sir's fine. Just not milord."

"Sir... may I ask how you came by these hurts?"

Wow, what an old-fashioned way of talking they have around here. Must come from serving nobs all the time. You shake your head, and he looks remorseful.

"I apologize for my forwardness, sir."

"Nah, it's nice of you, actually. I just can't gossip about my day."

His eyes get sparkly. "I heard you're a _spy hunter_."

You give him a grin. "Would I tell you if I was?"

That, of course, confirms his suspicion, and totally makes his night. Under other circumstances it might feel creepy to be admired for being some kind of hero of the Empire, when in fact you're working to undermine it, but you're too tired to angst. It leaves you without a lot of conversational options, though, so you're grateful when the older footman comes back with the curved needle you requested and a spool of undyed silk.

Once he's sure you don't mind amateur stitching and are aware that it will hurt, he does the job without further protest. Two stitches, bigger and deeper than Ripper would've made them but sufficient to the task. Your fanboy is deeply impressed that you didn't holler. The truth is that you nearly passed out from trying not to, but you don't disillusion him.

They wrap your wrist and ankle with clean linen bandages. Leaning on their shoulders, you hobble to the smaller bedroom of the suite. As you pass through the parlor, you see the Prince conversing with the boss chambermaid -- chatelaine? is that the word? -- but he doesn't even glance at you. You can't help being a little irritated. It's not that you expect admiration and blowjobs after every harrowing adventure. It's just that there's a lot you want to ask him. That's all. The fact that your bed has been pre-warmed does a lot to mitigate your annoyance.

To be honest, this is all a lot nicer than you've ever come back to after a mission or a battle. Hot bath, good meal, servants, clean bed... yeah, you're not going to be an ungrateful dick about it. Could've been salt pork and third-brew coffee in a drafty hospital tent.

"Is there anything else you require, sir?" the boy says.

"How about some water?"

He pours you a glass from the pitcher you didn't notice on the table beside the bed. Whoops, you could've done that yourself. It would've hurt your wrist, though. You drink gratefully, hand the glass back, and sink into the pillows. Goosedown, acres of it. You're going to smother. The boy snuffs all but one of the candles and goes out, closing the door behind him.

As so often happens after an exhausting ordeal, once you're free to rest, you're suddenly wide awake. Every injury starts signalling for attention, along with some new hurts you didn't notice before. Sore tailbone, probably from when they dumped you in the barge's pantry. Aching fingers from climbing. A bruise across your ribs from when you pulled yourself over the rail. Bruised knee from who even knows what. Maybe you knocked it at the same time you sprained your wrist.

You lie there listening to the symphony of throbbing your body is singing for you, and you endeavor to work out where all the major players stand now, politically and strategically... in the same way that a puppy on a leash endeavors to intimidate passing carriages. All effort, no effect.

When the door opens, you come back to yourself with a mental jerk, and you're not really sure if you were asleep or not. There are no servant voices; the parlor is dark. The Prince comes in with a candle in a big heavy silver candlestick, wearing a purple silk robe, looking pleased with himself. He sets the candle beside your water jug and stands smiling down at you, luminous and serene and so smug you kind of want to punch him.

"May I join you?"

"Why'd you put me in the smaller bed if you wanna sleep with me? I'm injured, you dick."

He stands there, smile fading. Unsure.

You roll your eyes and twitch the covers aside. "Get over here."

The smile comes back. He drops the robe; naked underneath. Slides in next to you. Tries hard not to jostle you, you appreciate that, but it hurts anyway. He takes a tentative hold of the hem of the nightshirt, and you raise your arms to help him lift it over your head. Then the underwear -- him curling down under the clean sheets and feather quilt to ease it over your bandages, kissing your thigh on the way back up, and your stomach, not even all that sexy, just affectionate.  He smells like clean and soap. Had a bath after you. Hasn't been long enough to empty and refill it. Used your bathwater? Would he do that?

He cups a hand to your cheek and kisses your mouth, softly, slowly, and something in your chest bursts like an abscess.

You take fistfuls of his hair so you can kiss him harder. Not even feeling your wrist or any of your injuries anymore. Starving for him in an angry, desperate, lost kind of way; not inclined to put a name to the feeling, but blaming him for it anyway, because it gives him power over you.

All this time he could've killed you with a word, but it's only now that you feel defenseless. Because death is just death; you half expect it every time you fight. This, though... this is _terrifying_.

He's willing, but confused. Goes along with your urgency a little awkwardly, still trying not to bump your bandages. You release him to gasp for breath and glare at him. His eyes widen. He must see something. You want to say something to make him understand, something sharp and heavy. Take this ache out of your chest and put it in his.

"Sol," he says, hoarse. Just that, but the roughness in it tells you... well, what you knew before, but you _believe_ it now. Maybe he aches already.

"I rescued myself, okay?" This isn't want you wanted to say, but it's what's coming out, so you have to go with it. "I thought you might come for me but I wasn't going to wait for it. That's not the way I do things."

"I wanted --"

"Shut up. I took care of business, and if Anvil hadn't showed I'd be dead but that's just the fortunes of war, it's because I was trying to get Tiger out. I could've got away on my own. What I was thinking, though, was that if I got back to you and it turned out you thought I left you, if it turned out you didn't even know something was wrong about me being so late, and you believed I just ran away --"

"I never did."

"Shut _up_." Your voice cracks. Your eyes are stinging. You blame fatigue. "Look, the point is, I had this scenario for if you didn't trust me. But it turns out I didn't have a plan in mind for if you _did_. I _told_ you I don't know what to do with this."

He takes your uninjured hand and kisses the palm, presses his lips there for a long moment with his eyes closed. It's such a cheesy, theatrical gesture, but he _means_ it, is the thing. The stupid, wonderful thing about him is that this isn't even self-consciousness, it's not even posing, he's just a natural ham, and you are so desperately fond of him that you can't breathe.

"I let you go," he says softly, "because I can't stand to hold you prisoner anymore. If you wanted to leave, I wanted you to go. I just had to believe you'd come back, because if you didn't... I don't know. I'd die."

"Drama queen," you accuse fondly.

"That's how I felt, Sol. You have to believe you'll live because death doesn't require a plan. Right? It felt like that."

"And now? It's not like this is happily ever after. We just made it more complicated."

"I'm tryin' not to think ahead right now. We're in such deep shit."

You give a dry laugh. "Well, that's true. We have a chance, though. We're not stupid. We have resources. We just have to be willing to do what it takes."

"To stay together?"

"To _win_."

He doesn't ask you what it is exactly that you're going to win. Just gazes down at you, fingers working in your hair. His eyes are bright and damp, they look almost black in the candlelight, and you know what he's going to say.

You blurt it out first: "I love you." Because you know he cares about things like that, about saying it out loud, and you can't let it be a you-too the first time you say it. You weren't expecting it to make you feel dizzy and a little nauseated, as if you opened a vein and wrote it in blood.

  
It's worth it, though. His face lights up. He takes a hitching, soblike breath. His eyes spill over, and because he's propped over you, this means one tear hits you on the nose and another goes in your ear, and you're going to tease him about it but before you can say anything he comes down on you like an avalanche of kisses.


	21. White Wings

Even with all this emotion, you're too tired and beat-up for sex. He can't get you up past half-mast, and declines to let you do anything for him if he can't do you in return; in his mind, mutual I-love-yous demand more than just a hand job into a hankie, you suppose. You can't even snuggle properly. No matter what position you try, it ends up making one of your injuries hurt worse. So in the end you settle on lying on your back with your good arm under his neck, him on his side with his hand on your stomach, listening to each other breathing. Listening to the rain.

"What are you thinkin'?" he says eventually.

"I hate that question." You glance over and find him half-grinning. "Everyone hates that question."

"Depends on the context."

"People ask you it after sex, you're supposed to come up with something romantic to say, while really you're not thinking anything at all besides 'hey that sure was some sex', it's like... entrapment."

He snickers. "You're so prickly." He turns his head to kiss your arm, then resettles himself. "But it ain't after sex, an' I can see you ponderin'."

"I have a lot to figure out. Why Titan was here, whether he was after me or Tiger, what he hopes to achieve by picking a fight with you... whether Anvil got Tiger out of town safely..."

"He did. I can assure you on that point, anyway. He reported while you were sleepin'. Set her down in the woods upriver, by a supply cache she had, and saw no one was followin' her."

"He was here?"

"No."

You narrow your eyes at him. "If you have a magical way of talking to your Taken, what's that encrypted message even _for_?"

He laughs softly, rolling his eyes a little. "Sol, we can talk about this when you ain't half asleep."

"Nope, this one you explain now."

"Bossy." He tries for a kiss, and you let him have one, but afterwards you give him a look that indicates he hasn't distracted you, and he gives in. "Mind spells go both ways. It's like meetin' someone at the door to your house. You gotta open the door to talk to them, an' that means they can kinda see in. Anvil an' Undine, I trust with that. My other Taken, not so much. Titan does his messages a different way, I don't know how to describe it to you. Throws 'em hard enough to knock the other party ass-over-endways. They can't get a look inside his head, but it leaves 'em pukin', an' aside from makin' 'em hate him even more, he's a dumbass to do a thing like that to somebody who might be in a fight or hidden or somethin'."

It's weird and a little funny to think of Taken puking. Do they even eat? "So the Orphaner won't use mind spells at all?"

"Doesn't trust anyone enough to let 'em get a hook in that way."

"It does sound sort of dangerous. Can you really trust _any_ Taken that much? I don't get the impression any of them enjoy their situation a whole lot."

He gives a sort of lazy wiggle that stands in for a shrug. "Undine an' Anvil are too dignified to kick against the traces. Sol," he adds when you're about to say something else, "I'm not holdin' out on you. I think we're past the chess-game stage. I'm just exhausted, and so are you. Stop thinkin' for a little while."

"Easier said than done."

"Sol," he sighs. He scoots a little closer, kisses the point of your nose, rests his forehead against yours. "Go the fuck to sleep."

You pretend you're going to bite him, but you're smiling. Since he's this close, you can curl your arm up and get your hand into his hair. His thumb rubs slow arcs across your sternum. You let your eyes sag shut. The play of light on your eyelids reminds you: "If we don't snuff those candles they'll make a mess..."

"Shh."

* * *

Sometime early in the morning, he gets up, and it wakes you halfway. Just enough to see by the color of the light that it's cloudy, and smile at the way he looks when he's been sleeping. Doll-pale and puffy-eyed, hair a fluffy mess, pillow creases on his cheek. He kisses you and tells you to sleep some more. You sink back under, thinking how you must be insane to find it charming that he has morning breath just like anyone else.

When he wakes you again, the light is white and hard; the overcast has cleared, and it must be nearly noon. You feel hung-over. Sick and dizzy. He's already dressed in his official finery. You pout.

"Did I miss my window for morning sex?"

"You needed the rest," he says, sounding more concerned than regretful. He puts a cold palm to your forehead and makes a face. "I'm sendin' you to Undine. That stab in your leg is none too clean an' I'm not takin' chances."

"The knife went swimming in the river," you explain. It makes him look even more worried. "I want my glasses."

"Of course."

"And my writing case. And my knives."

"I've got all your things for you."

"They were a present from my evil boyfriend." You grin. He doesn't. You try to poke at him to show him he should laugh, but you miss -- fortunate, because whoops, that was your sprained wrist. "I'm kinda off my head, aren't I?"

He sinks gracefully to his knees beside the bed so he can kiss your brow. "You'll be fine. Undine will take care of everything. She'll keep you safe. She likes you."

"She's hardly met me." That's not what you want to talk about, though. You struggle to focus. "Prince, don't you dare stash me somewhere safe and go off to solve everything without me. We're in this together."

"Are we?" He sounds surprised.

"Fuck you, don't you shut me out, I'll kick your ass."

"Shh." He kisses your forehead again. You shove at him -- good hand this time -- and make him look at you. He's too worried. You're not _that_ feverish.

"Listen to me," you say vehemently. "If you try to handle the Titan problem without me, you will get yourself killed. I have a really bad feeling. You're making martyr faces and sending me away, you're gonna die where I can't even see you!"

"I'm not. No, shh, Sol, I promise, I won't."

"Won't what, won't die? Or won't go?"

"I won't confront Titan by myself. I'm not a fuckin' idiot, beloved. Last night was just a hair better than a tie an' I'm in no hurry to repeat the experience."

"Then why are you sending me away?" Whoa, you sound _way_ too emotional, like you're about to start bawling or something. Maybe the fever's worth being a tiny bit worried about after all. "There are closer healers who can handle a little infection. Let me stay with you. I can help."

He winces. "Dear heart, I'm going to turn Shatter an' Hush. I don't want you anywhere near that. It's not nice."

He's so full of shit. "Like I care about nice."

"Sol, it's straight-up fuckin' _ghastly_ , is what it is. I'm gonna have to Take them all over again, right on top a whatever Titan did, an' he broke them _hard_. I don't..." He takes a long breath through his nose and gives up on that sentence.

"You don't want me to see you doing black magic? What, you think I'll stop loving you? Prince, I knew what you are from the beginning."

"It's different bein' near it. The big magics, the really dark ones. I don't want you near it. Please, Sol."

"Is it going to turn me into a monster? Will I catch Taken off them like pneumonia?"

"No --"

"I'm a soldier, you ass. I'm not squeamish, I don't have -- I don't _want_ any illusions about you --"

"I don't trust anyone but Undine with the state a your health --"

"So bring them to wherever she is and do it there! God!"

He draws breath to argue more. You thin your lips and glare. He lets the breath out. Lets his head bow until it's resting on the pillow next to yours. After a pause, he shifts so you can see him; his lashes are stuck together, he's tearing up, the big crybaby. "Sol, can you honestly watch me torture someone's soul and still love me?"

"I'm a spy during wartime, Prince," you answer seriously. "Torture's a shitty tool but sometimes it's what you've got. If it's the only way to free them from Titan, then quit fucking angsting about it and _do_ it."

The smile he gives you is wan, but real. "I love you so much."

You grin. "This conversation would give a lotta people the creeps, you know that? Kiss me." He does. "Now get me some goddamn clothes."

* * *

You can't quite stand up unassisted, so you're a little concerned about getting to where he left his carpet -- actually, just getting down to the street sounds pretty rough -- but he only takes you as far as the parlor of the suite. He leaves you sitting in a chair and goes to fling the window open.

A pale figure dives through, rolls and lands crouching. You're on the edge of your seat, knives in hands, before you realize the man is bowing to the Prince, not gathering to spring at him. You put the knives away sheepishly.

"Sol, this is Echo, swiftest of the Taken. He'll bring you to Undine."

"Hey, wait a second."

"I called him before we had our discussion," the Prince says, not nearly apologetically enough for your taste. "I'll follow as soon as I can."

"Damn it, Prince, do you know how nervous that makes me?"

Echo lifts his head to look at you, a birdlike gesture of curiosity, though you can't see his eyes; he's wearing goggles with dark lenses. His clothing is white, tight, and tattered, as if it was tied onto him like a bandage, with here and there a rag of bright orange showing. His skin is stark white as well, as is his long, ragged hair. You're not sure whether he looks more like a ghoul or a gull.

"I know," the Prince says. "I also know you wouldn't be worryin' about it if you weren't feverish, so maybe you should try an' enjoy wallowin' in illogical sentiment while you can."

"Asshole," you grin. You almost add _Love you_ , but even if you're muddled enough to argue with him in front of his Taken, you aren't far enough gone to announce to the world that the two of you are an item. You can't remember just now why that would be a terrible idea, but you know it would be. Although maybe his Taken already know. The two he lets peek through the door of his mental house probably do, anyway.

Grinning back at you, the Prince says, "Try not to scream when he takes off."

Echo strides over to you -- fluid, dancelike gait, would be intriguing if it wasn't so scary -- and scoops you out of the chair. You go sort of rigid in his arms, and just barely manage not to thrash. It's involuntary. You've never touched a Taken's aura before; Anvil helped you up that one time, but he was reining it in, and he's unusually subtle besides. They all feel different, but so far they've all been cold. Echo _burns_ , though, as if he's just a thin human-shaped shell full of molten iron. It's mildly painful on a level that isn't physical, the same level where you felt the impact of Hush's spell breaking when you stabbed your leg.

"Hang on to your little boxes," Echo says. His voice is soft, drawling, apathetic. You firm your grasp on your writing case and the box the knives came in. Where's he going to carry you? To the window? Why? Does he have a carpet out there?

You wave at the Prince. He blows you a kiss behind Echo's back, which makes you smile a little despite your discomfort. Echo steps into the window frame. You look down, expecting a carpet -- and see nothing but the busy street, three stories below. _Please have an invisible carpet, please have an invisible carpet, please don't just jump --_

Echo tightens his arms around your back and knees, and lets himself keel forward like cut timber -- and _falls_ , there is no invisible carpet, he's just _diving out the damn window --_

You don't scream. You do, however, give a strangled yelp when huge white wings snap out of his back and turn his fall into a swoop. He laughs dryly as he banks parallel to the street and starts beating for altitude. "I know perfectly damn well how childish that is," he says. "And yet I do it anyway, every chance I get. It's a personality flaw."


	22. Deep Water

This is not a comfortable way to travel.

Every flap of his wings jolts your injured leg, and even once he gains height and levels out, the way he's gripping you squeezes the wound. The chill wind is nice on your burned ankle at first -- your feet are bare, you never did find your boots -- but after a while it starts feeling scoured, and you wish you could try to pull your trouser cuff over it. You're held immobile, though. Also, your hands are occupied with your belongings, which makes your wrist ache even though you try to keep it straight.

On top of all that, you're starting to feel really sick. It feels more like a flu than a hangover now. Weak, shaky, heartbeat throbbing in your teeth. You're ragingly thirsty, and wish you'd thought to have a glass of water before you left the bedroom. It was _right there_ , how did you not think to drink any?

You can only hope the trip won't be long. He _is_ flying faster than a carpet.

Maybe he's willing to chat to pass the time. "So you're Echo," you try.

"And you're Sollux Captor. Glad we got that sorted out, it could've been really confusing."

You snort, not sure whether you're annoyed or amused. Sarcastic dick. "Which leaves Naga and Peregrine. Unless the Prince has some Taken I haven't heard of."

"Why don't you use a code name? Seems like a stupid move to me, but your profession suggests you're not a stupid man."

Okay, he's willing to talk, but not to answer questions. You can work with that. "Changed my name when I left home, and my hometown was destroyed, birth records included. So there's no reason for me to come up with some special-snowflake alias. I'm not a wizard, anyway."

"All the Rebels use code names. As did your mercenary company even before it switched sides. I'd think _not_ using one is the special-snowflake move."

"Call it laziness, then."

"I'll accept that." The faintest twitch of a smile. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Your Rebel affiliation may not have been ideological, but turning coat is still a pretty sleazy move. I expected a weasel. Maybe you're just a good actor."

There's no point explaining that you were kidnapped or that you're still not on the Empire's side, and you're not sure why you even have to exert any willpower not to. Wanting people to understand the real you is not a feeling a spy should indulge. Tiger was right; you're going soft. "The Prince knows my motives," is all you say.

"He knows mine, too, but that doesn't mean he trusts me."

"You were a Rebel? Before?"

He glances down at you, and from the set of his mouth you think you just lost some points. "I know I look a little different, but come on. It hasn't been that long."

"I'm thinking through a fever here, cut me a break." As you say it, though, you're shoving at the wheels of your mud-mired mind, trying to deduce who he might've been. You know the Sea Lords make their Taken from captured enemies, and his implication that he fell recently enough that you might know him narrows the field, but the Prince and the Titan both went on a Taking spree a few years back.

It was part of why the Company bailed, in fact, at least indirectly; the Orphaner used you like a stick for beating hornets' nests with -- those nests being his sons' command structures, and the hornets their Taken -- and you ended up caught in the middle of some nasty magical infighting. Both younger Sea Lords lost a handful of Taken, the Company lost a lot of good men, and the Orphaner lost the Company's loyalty. It took most of two years to play out, though, and in the midst of it the Company helped capture several Rebel leaders who ended up in Echo's condition.

You don't remember any whose spell repertoire included growing wings. You heard rumors there was someone who could fly without a carpet, but you assumed that was Peregrine, just because of his name. You did once capture an island city-state ruled by a pair of white-haired twins, but they were royalty, not wizards...

No, wait, the male twin made golems, didn't he?

"Prince Timaeus," you guess. "From Annulus."

" _The_ Annulus," he corrects. "It's a vocabulary word, not a proper name, and designates the entire archipelago. All of which I ruled with my sister, until the Prince killed her, sacked my capitol, ripped my soul out and put it in backwards. Raider and Lamplighter died in that battle as well, my lover and my dearest friend respectively, and I know you were there." He delivers all this in the same leisurely, can't-be-bothered drawl. "I should drop you."

"Just because I was in the army that won? There are thirty thousand _other_ guys you might want a word with, then, and if you try and drop them all your wings are going to get tired."

"Nah. Because you're the Prince's boyfriend, and turnabout's fair play."

"Fuck's sake," you groan. So much for not telling people. "Well, if you're going to do it, hurry up, because I feel like shit."

"Relax. I'm just teasing you a little." He gives you a friendly smile.

Taken: they are not well-adjusted people.

* * *

"Hang on to your shit, Captor," Echo says, and you jolt out of a daze to realize your boxes are slipping. Your hands are so weak all of a sudden.

You try to put them inside your shirt. You get the writing case tucked in there all right, but in the process you drop the knife box. You watch it tumble down -- oh, hey, you're flying over the ocean now -- and vanish. Fuck. It was a nice box, and now you have to carry the knives in your belt all the time.

"If we have to go back for that..." Echo says warningly.

You shake your head slightly. "It was empty." Your voice sounds weird, kind of stretched out and raspy.

"What the hell were you carrying an empty box for?" He doesn't wait for an answer. He rolls, folds his wings, and dives.

The waves rush up. You guess he's trying to scare you again, but this time you just don't care. You don't even try to hold a breath at the last moment; breathing has become a chore, you're practically panting, and drowning would be kind of a relief.

Hitting the ocean jolts you, which hurts your leg pretty bad, but from that height and at that speed you should've broken every bone in your body, so obviously there's some magic in play. The water feels like air. Thick, humid air, clammy like a winter fog, but you can breathe it.

Echo leaves a trail of bubbles like a diving sea bird. When he half-opens his wings to swim-fly downward with tight, pushing strokes, the bubbles spread out. Deeper, the water darkening, the bubbles more and more like stars against an evening sky. What are those birds called? Not gulls. Gulls don't dive like that. Damn it, you _know_ this.

"Gannet!" you blurt at last.

"What?" he says flatly.

"You're a gannet."

He rolls his eyes and doesn't reply. You don't blame him. You're not so delirious that you can't tell you're delirious.

The sea is full of colors. You don't know how many of them are actually there. Some things happen that you afterwards deduce are dreams, and are proud of yourself for applying logic to work that out. For instance, no matter how certain you are that your guts have been scooped out, leaving a smooth, woody hollow like the inside of an acorn cap, you can see that your midsection is unchanged. You can feel it with your hands.

You have to be careful about waving those hands around, though. Fish have already eaten them a few times. It's because you've been swimming for seven years. Anyone would get hungry.

Hearing music made you panic because you thought Hush was fucking with your head again. Echo did something to stop you thrashing. You don't remember it, you only remember remembering it. Someone is still singing, like big brass bells in the deeps, but it's not personal anymore.

He carries you through a kelp forest forever. You think a fisherman told you once that they only grow in shallow water, but it seems more likely that you're misremembering what he said than that you're hallucinating the forest now. You're pretty sure if you hallucinated a kelp forest it would be green and lush, full of shiny fish and mermaids. This one is brown, sparse and sort of chewed-on-looking, floored with rough sand rather than grasslike weed, and the only fish you see are a few boring little silver ones and a yellow eel.

  
You hope the shipwreck city is real, though, because it's cool as hell. Also, if it isn't, where the fuck are you?


	23. Bubbles

Mermaids are ugly, but in a cute way.

You have to see quite a few of them before you're sure you're not hallucinating them. They keep swimming by to peek through the bubble-dome thing at you. They have big, protuding eyes and flat pug faces, with lipless mouths in a perpetual half-smile, sort of like a deflated pufferfish. Though their upper bodies are roughly human-shaped, they've got fins and spines instead of hair, and slick, shimmering scales everywhere, not just on their tails.

Colorful, though, and they seem more curious than hostile. You guess they don't get a lot of strangers down here.

Your memory of the shipwreck city as a whole is disjointed from fever. You know you saw building-like structures made of curved planks, coral, and bubbles, organic conglomerations of them like caddisfly cases. It seemed to stretch for miles, a real city covering the sea floor. Logically, that seems unlikely; people who breathe air don't have much reason to be down here, you don't think, and the mermaids don't need houses. It's not like it rains.

A childish part of you still hopes it's real. It's the sort of thing you always dreamed the world contained, the world Out There, beyond the mundane safety of home and work. In your travels you've seen mostly war. What wonders you've witnessed have been born of some brutal purpose -- the Storm Palace, for instance.

Can't there be an undersea city just... because it's neat?

From your sickroom, all you can see is a patch of kelp forest and coral, like an undersea garden, and beyond that a bit of what you think is this same building. Your room is shaped like a squashed quarter-circle. Its inner walls and floor are built of ship's planking, discolored from its stay on the seafloor but dry and sanded smooth. The outer wall and ceiling are a curve of bubble. Lying here -- in a bed that you think was once attached to a wall, since it has a low railing along one side and not the other -- you can watch the fish swim by, see them silhouetted against the deep blue daylight above you. You can watch the mermaids and they can watch you.

All your injuries have been healed. Stab wound, wrist, ankle, all the scrapes and bruises. You're still feverish, though, and so weak that raising a hand to wave at a passing mermaid exhausts you. You have your lucid times and your not-so-lucid times. You think Undine explained what's wrong with you, but you don't remember it very well.

She comes to treat you at intervals. As doctoring goes, hers is pretty tolerable. Cold and wet, but it doesn't hurt or taste bad and it's no more humiliating than a sponge bath. You try not to be too much of a pain in the ass about it. So when the door opens, you muster a smile for her.

She's carrying an oilcloth, and the two servants with her are carrying big clay jars, one empty and one full of seawater. She asks about your symptoms as they go about getting you ready. They strip off your blanket, and the servants lift you so she can spread the oilcloth under you. You can't help flopping like a corpse when they pick you up. Their hands hurt your skin as if you're one big bruise.

"Tired," you tell her, "some aches, you know those all-over aches like when you have the flu." Something about the way she nods tells you she's never had a flu in her life. Your suspicion that she was never human to begin with grows whenever she does something like that. "Bit groggy, but lucid. If you could bring me my writing case after this..."

"You can have your writing case when you can get it yourself," she says absently, as if she's said it before.

She glances at the low 'table' beside the bed, some kind of cargo crate or trunk with a cloth draped over it. Your case is on the far end of it. Just out of arm's reach. You would have to raise yourself on one arm and twist to reach it with the other. Right now, that's utterly beyond you. You sigh your understanding. The servants settle you on the chilly oilcloth, and one fetches a low stool so Undine can sit beside your bed.

Undine reaches into the full jar and gathers up a wobbling globe of seawater. In her hands it holds together like a jelly. Possibly the same magic that created the bubble-windows. She presses the blob to your skin and starts roll-sliding it over you. It's sharply chilly. It feels wet when it's touching you, though it doesn't leave wetness behind when she moves it. She'll get every inch of you at least once -- doubles as a bath, how convenient! -- but she pays special attention to the lymph nodes in your armpits, groin, and neck.

After a few minutes of this, the blob becomes milky, and she discards it into the empty jar. She gathers a fresh blob. You've tried counting how many blobs are in a jar, but you always lose count before she's done.

You wonder if you're coherent enough to understand her explanation of what she's doing if you ask again, but the thought of listening to a whole long technical spiel sounds really tiring, so you don't. Instead you say, "I could use a shave."

Undine glances at one of the servants, who bows slightly and says, "I'll see to it, ma'am."

So much for conversation. After a bit you try a different tack: "I know I can't hold a book yet, but maybe someone could read to me."

"Is that the sort of service one can expect in a Rebel field hospital?" Undine says with false sweetness. "How very civilized you must be."

You give a dry chuckle. "And here the Prince thought you liked me." The next moment you realize what that sounded like. "Damn, sorry, I didn't mean to imply I'm going to complain to him or something. You don't have any reason to like me. Actually, I thought it was weird that he said so."

"I don't dislike you, Sollux," she says; less syrup in her voice now, more professional politeness. "I'm just not accustomed to treating lingering conditions, particularly in mortal men. Your illness frustrates me. I can't simply pour more magic into it to force it to heal faster. In fact, doing that would kill you; an overactive healing response is part of the problem. It may be several more days before you're out of danger."

"And you have better things to do." She won't say it, so you will. "You're the Prince's right-hand woman, and here you are stuck playing personal physician to someone who doesn't even have a proper place in the command structure. I get it. I really am grateful."

"You'd better be!" You think this particular smile is real.

The servants turn you over so she can work on your back, which makes it too awkward to converse for a while. Talking is wearing you out, anyway. There's one more thing you need to discuss, though. You wait until the treatment is done and the servants have gathered up the jars and oilcloth, catch Undine's eyes as she's tucking the blanket under your chin.

"Where is he, Undine?"

"I don't know." She's very calm, which you're starting to think is a bad sign, though it might be more annoyance than fear. "Four days," she adds before you can ask.

"He said he'd follow right away."

"So you keep saying."

Your distress comes through despite your best efforts: "I _know_ he wasn't lying to me. He promised he wouldn't stash me somewhere and go off -- he wasn't just managing me, I can read him, it wasn't bullshit!" You sound like you're protesting too much, like you doubt him, but you're just really concerned.

"I'd know if something was wrong." The same non-answer she gave you the last bazillion times you asked. But this time she hesitates afterwards, and adds, "Sollux, do you love him?"

"How is that possibly any of your business?" you snap.

She gives you a tight, unhappy smile. Softly, so the servants won't hear, she says, "When you leave him, plan it better than I did." She turns and goes.

Wow. Talk about a parting shot. You glare up at the distant, blue shimmer of the sun as their footsteps recede. For several minutes you're just irrationally angry, and you have no idea why. As if you're some carefree civilian who can afford to get his back up when someone questions his devotion to his lover. Why _wouldn't_ she assume you want to leave? You're still a prisoner, as far as she knows. Besides, what do you care whether Undine, or anyone else for that matter, understands your feelings for the Prince? It's a private matter. You feel no urge whatsoever to shout it from the rooftops, or whatever people in love do if they're not sneaky fucks like you.

The treatment has left you more clear-headed than you've felt since the fever first came on, though, and after having a nice little sulk you realize what you're actually mad about. You're mad that you came across like a neglected boy-toy whining that your sugar daddy isn't giving you enough attention, and you're mad that Undine brought up love right after that, as if she believes that's the core of your motivation.

And as if she thinks your personal feelings would affect whether you stay or go. You're more professional than that, dammit.

_… No, actually, I'm not. At least be honest inside your own head, Captor. Hiding your agenda from yourself is a good way to end up making dumb mistakes._

Okay, so your decision to stick with him wasn't completely impelled by the prospect of dividing him from the Orphaner or influencing his command decisions. It's no use denying your choice was somewhat influenced by the fact that walking away from him sounds every bit as terrible as never seeing your friends again.

Still, it's none of Undine's business what --

Huh. Maybe it _is_ her business.

You're used to Tiger's hobby of matchmaking, her personal fascination with other people's relationships, and you interpreted Undine's question in that light. But if you look at it a different way, like maybe she's trying to get a read on you, figure out whether you're playing her boss or not -- whether you're doing what you originally intended to do to him -- yeah, you totally blew it. Whoops. You have _got_ to stop underestimating people.

When a servant comes to shave you, you ask if he'll pass on a message to Undine, a very polite request for a moment of her time. She comes an hour later. She looks a bit harried, but she gives you that dimpled smile of hers, and there's not a drop of don't-waste-my-time in her greeting. You don't let it fool you.

"I want to apologize," you say. "For dodging your question, I mean, and also for being a cranky dick about it. I guess I thought I sounded too much like a spoiled kid with a dumb crush already, and talking about feelings on top of that... anyway, sorry."

"I accept your apology." You think there might be the barest hint of 'you interrupted my work for this?' in there, but maybe you're imagining it.

You might as well finish, though. "Yes, I love him. And I _like_ him, too, but what's probably more relevant is that he knows I'm not a big Orphaner fan and I won't do anything to hurt the Rebels, but in anything else, he can count on me."

"I see." Wow, she is really good at hiding her tells.

"I'm not flipping out because I'm afraid he dumped me, Undine. I'm flipping out because right after Titan picked a fight, the Prince missed a planned rendezvous. In a purely military context, all feelings aside, that is disturbing as fuck. You tell me you'd know if something was wrong, but lady, you're a brick wall. I can't read you worth a _damn_."

She chuckles, seeming genuinely amused. 'Seeming' being the operative word. "He really is all right, Sollux. Something came up. A logistical crisis he had to deal with personally, nothing dangerous or sinister, just a paperwork emergency. You understand I can't tell you more than that, right?"

You let out a long sigh. So he ditched you for the office. You're going to be cranky about that when you see him again, but it makes sense, and you don't really blame him. He has a job to do, after all. And you know perfectly well that a 'paperwork emergency' can be plenty serious in an army at war; a supply train sent to the wrong fort can cost a thousand lives. A warehouse fire, a grain convoy sunk or captured, disease in the stockyards, a flooded arms depot -- soldiers die because of these things.

"Thanks," you say. "What about Anvil, has he come in?"

"I'll tell him you asked after him. And now, much as I'd like to stay and entertain you, you need to rest, and I am actually very busy! Stop pestering me and go to sleep!" She says this like she's saying Happy Birthday. She whirls in a flare of veils and stalks out, little bare feet slapping on the sanded planks.

  
You find yourself grinning at the door as it shuts behind her. You still can't read her very well, but you're starting to think those chirpy rebukes are how she expresses camaraderie.


	24. Ink

 

Anvil is there when you next wake up. He's sitting in a straight-backed chair, feet parallel on the floor and hands on his knees, like a guardian statue beside a temple door. There should be another of him on the other side of you. When you lift a hand to rub grit out of your eyes, his stillness fades a little; he laces his fingers in his lap and leans slightly toward you.

"I can't tell you where the Prince is," he says.

You grimace and smack your lips. He waits impassively. When you're done making faces, you say, "I already got the skinny from Undine."

"I very much doubt that."

Oh well. It was worth a try. "I mean she told me a logistical emergency came up," you cover.

"That is more than she should have told you."

"Come on. What kind of shenanigans could I possibly get up to with that information?"

"I believe she would be wise not to underestimate you."

Fair's fair, you did it to her first. You don't say so; first, because talking with your mouth so dry is a real pain in the ass, and second, because some thought is knocking on the back door of your consciousness and you don't want to scare it away before you find the key.

After a while, Anvil clears his throat. "I believe you wished to talk to me."

"I just asked her if you came in yet. But since you're here, can you hand me my writing case?"

Either Undine didn't tell him not to, or he just doesn't care, because he hands it over. He also gets you a glass of water. Your hand shakes, and you spill all over yourself. You think you catch the corner of a smile on his face. It vanishes when you look at him straight on.

He watches you open the case and shuffle through your papers. "What is that?"

"A cipher the Prince wants me to crack." _See? We don't have to stonewall each other._ "I got as far as identifying the type, but I'm stuck until I get more information."

"Then what do you hope to accomplish now?"

"Beats me." Just _thinking_ about the cipher exhausts you. You close your eyes and let it fall back in the box. You hear Anvil's chair creak, and you swat without looking; you're as surprised as he is when you succeed in slapping the hand that was reaching for your papers. "What the hell, Anvil," you say wearily.

"I apologize." Stiff; pride stung; not really sorry.

"Would it even make any sense to you?" Something occurs to you, and you open your eyes. "Wait -- _would_ it? God knows I could use another crypto expert to bounce ideas off of."

"I wouldn't call myself an _expert_."

"Don't be coy. Do you know jack shit about cryptography or not?"

"Your foul language continues to be offensive and plebian."

You raise an eyebrow. You wait.

"I have... dabbled in it."

"How are you with numbers?"

"There, I can say comfortably that I am well at home."

"And you're obviously not busy, or you wouldn't be hanging around with me." You give him a grin; probably a wan one, but your eagerness is genuine, because that mental back door just burst wide open. "Pull up a table, big guy, we're going to brute-force this motherfucker."

"Your coarse language --"

"Is absolutely necessary. Get a fucking pen."

 

* * *

 

The idea is simple: make a list of proper names and unique or uncommon words that are likely to show up in the Orphaner's communications, and try them all.

The execution is tedious. Making the list and splitting it between the two of you only takes an hour or so, but then each word has to be applied to the cipher multiple times, shifting it one place with each iteration. It could take months if you don't get lucky early on. But since the two of you are at loose ends, you figure you might as well give it a shot.

Even if it had occurred to you before, it wouldn't have been worth it when you were working alone and had the Prince's library as an alternative; it was much, much faster to check a stack of books for 'and's and 'the's in the right places on the first page of each chapter. You did try 'Glory to the Empire', because the Imperials had a hard time leaving it out at first. You didn't actually need it to read their mail, since they were using Baby's First Substitution Cipher, and they eventually stopped doing it anyway, but it was worth a shot. You weren't surprised when it didn't work.

Looking back, you're starting to think you should've come up with this plan earlier. You could've at least started some of the Prince's admins on it. Teaching them how to help you just seemed like such a steep hill to climb.

Anvil is the perfect assistant. You don't have to explain how to use the letter square. You don't have to explain how to check the words, nor convince him to iterate by one character rather than one word-length. He just sits down with a stack of scratch paper and starts chugging along.

He gets more work done than you do. You can barely hold your pen, and sitting up in bed is almost beyond you. You manage to check 'Redglare' against maybe the first thirty characters of the ciphertext before you start to fall over. Anvil wordlessly takes your writing case, sets it aside, and cleans your nib. He rearranges you so you're lying down again, as easily as if you're a child. Then he goes back to work. You doze off to the scratching of his pen.

Undine comes in for your treatment eventually. She grumbles something at Anvil, and he rumbles some reply that you can't quite parse. This is one of your less lucid hours. The water-blob is unbearably icy this time. You can't stop shivering. It seems like forever before she finally covers you up.

"I don't have time to deal with him relapsing," Undine scolds Anvil.

"Have you seen this?" A shuffle of paper. "The work he's already done is quite complex."

"Are you listening to me?"

"At the Storm Palace, I'm told, he papered the walls with calculations."

"This is a sickroom, Anvil, not a counting-house."

"I believe I have severely underestimated him." Then Anvil makes a pained noise. You pry your eyes open a crack. Undine has him by the ear.

"You listen here, mister. Blood poisoning relapses if you _look_ at it funny, and I have better things to do than play nurse. If you let him pick up that pen again without my permission, so help me --"

"Yes, ma'am," he winces. "I understand." She lets go his ear, and he rubs it. "Nevertheless I will remain and continue this work. I believe it to be important."

"You can do it somewhere other than --"

You unstick your mouth. They both look at you. "The pen noise," you croak. "Helps me sleep."

Undine looks skeptical. "You were sleeping just fine without it!"

"I was dreaming about Aradia..." Oops. That wasn't supposed to come out. Fucking fever.

"Your sister?" Undine has done her homework, apparently.

"She used to... draw maps... supposed to be sleeping... listened to it..."

Undine sighs. If she makes any expression or gesture after that, you miss it, because your eyes refuse to stay open. You hear her leave, and Anvil's pen resumes.

* * *

It's a short fall back into your dream. Aradia is sitting at a small table like the one Anvil carried into the sickroom, though you didn't have a table in the attic room the two of you shared above the printer's shop. She's the age she was when she died, tall, long-fingered, gaunt from campaigning, but her hair is long and loose the way she used to wear it when you were children. Her olive skin is smooth, not tanned and windburned. She's wearing her Mage Corps armband over her apprentice's clothing.

"Looks like I won't be joining you this time either," you say. "Sorry."

She doesn't look up from her drawing. "I really don't want you to come be dead with me yet, Sollux," she says calmly. "You have a lot to do. I don't know why you don't believe me."

"I do believe you, I guess. I just miss you."

"I know."

"Do you miss me?"

"No. That would be silly."

You have to smile, because that's so like her. You go stand behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She's warm, but so thin, and so still. "What are you drawing?"

"A map."

"It doesn't look like any map I've ever seen." There are no roads, no rivers, just incomprehensible symbols and a baffling network of arrows.

"Maybe if you think harder, it'll come to you. Don't underestimate yourself. Everyone is underestimating everyone."

You reach past her to trace one of the arrows. There's something familiar about it, about the way it's wider than some of the others and filled in with crosshatching. "Yeah, that word keeps coming up."

"If you say it enough, it stops meaning anything." She looks up, and gives you that wonderful creepy smile of hers, the one that seems so fake if you don't know that the way she exaggerates it is part of the joke.

Your heart chokes you. You miss her, you miss her so much, you miss so many people, you're so _alone_ and suddenly self-reliance seems like sour grapes --

"You seem upset," Aradia points out. "I forget what that was like. Here, look." She takes your hand and puts your tracing finger on a different arrow, this one very thin, a mere scratch of a half-dry pen, but it crosses half a dozen thicker ones. "This one is you."

* * *

A loud thump wakes you. You only half hear Anvil's apology as he squares the ream of paper he just dropped on the table. Your heart is pounding, your fingers itch for a pen. You know now what you were looking at.

Aradia's drawing was a troop movement map. Except instead of armies, the symbols represented individuals; Karkat, the Prince, various Taken. You. And instead of movement across terrain, the arrows stood for _focus_ somehow. You couldn't draw the map from memory, it was probably topographically impossible. The sort of thing that could only exist in a dream. You understand it, though, you know what Aradia -- or your own subconscious -- was trying to show you.

_All the arrows pointed away from the Titan._

"Everyone is underestimating everyone," you rasp.

Anvil throws you a curious look.

"I need you to get a message to the Prince."


	25. Just Because You're Paranoid

Anvil is one obstinate slab of hauteur.

"I will not pester His Highness simply to inform him that you had a dream," he keeps saying, in an increasingly sardonic tone. And whenever you try to explain, he reiterates, "You _dreamed_ it."

After a few go-rounds of this, you conclude you're going to have to exert some leverage. And oh goody, wouldn't you know it, the only hostage you have is yourself. You shove your blanket off and start oozing over the side of the bed. He catches you before you can crumple onto the floor and puts you back.

"If you won't listen, I'll find someone who will," you scowl, preparing to throw the covers off again.

"Don't be stupid. You can't even stand --"

"I'll crawl."

"You'll relapse! Undine will --"

"Maybe _she'll_ listen."

He catches on at last. "Fine! I'm listening, just stop this self-destructive nonsense!"

Now you just have to stay conscious and cogent long enough to make your case. Not so easy, after thrashing around like that. But it's important, so you gather up your willpower and force it. "I didn't dream the _information_ , Anvil. I knew these things already. I put it _together_ in a dream. Haven't you ever heard the phrase 'sleep on it'? Sometimes your dreaming mind notices patterns you didn't pick up on when you were awake."

He settles back onto his chair with a harrumph. "All you have is a guess."

"A hypothesis," you correct. "It's up to the Prince to test it. But he can't test it if he doesn't _know_ about it."

"You seem to think he has nothing better to do --"

You gargle a frustrated noise and fling your hands up. Since they feel like dead weight at the end of your arms right now, you sort of punch yourself in the head in the process. "That's the _point_!" you shout. "He has all _kinds_ of things to do, and wow, who keeps creating these exciting busywork opportunities? There sure are a lot of them! He sure is busy busy busy!"

"Captor, calm down."

"No, _you_ \-- be -- less calm! He's supposed to be this amazing strategist, right? How long since he had time to strategize?"

Anvil scowls, but he refrains from interrupting. It's a start.

"I haven't been with him very long, but I think it's long enough to get an idea how he operates. He's a workaholic. He's worse than me, and that's saying something. But it seems he's done nothing but play catch-up with situations he didn't see coming. We've only fucked twice -- don't give me 'vulgar', it's a data point! People aren't _too busy_ to bang their shiny new lover unless shit is seriously dire. And he keeps running off to deal personally with problems in distant places, like he doesn't have anyone in the area he could trust to handle it, and loses days of work each time. That is not the hallmark of a master tactician."

When you pause to pant for breath -- you're seeing sparkles now, but goddamnit, you are _not_ going to pass out yet -- Anvil makes a thoughtful noise. His look is challenging. He might as well have said it out loud: _I hope for your sake that you are not about to impugn my liege's competence._

"So obviously," you go on when you have the air for it, "it hasn't always been this way. He wouldn't have that reputation if it had. Something changed. Maybe it's just a coincidental spike in unexpected incidents, and it'll go back to normal on its own. _Or maybe someone is keeping him busy_. Maybe someone is _creating_ emergencies in places where his network is thin so he'll have to deal with them himself. For God's sake, Anvil, you know for a _fact_ Titan was behind my kidnapping, and he stuck around for a brawl -- why? Just to be a dick?"

"Don't you think," Anvil says slowly, "that this might already have occurred to him?"

"Maybe it has. But -- argh." It's more a whimper than a shout this time. Why does he have to be so obstinate? Is he trying to wait you out, knowing you're running out of stamina? Doesn't he realize you didn't get _your_ reputation by jumping to conclusions?

Anvil pours you a cup of water. You knock it out of his hand, grab his wrist as the glass shatters. With the last of your strength, you bare your teeth and glare into his eyes. " _They. Are. Twins._ "

You don't precisely fall unconscious after that, but there's a period of disorientation and nausea during which you're pretty sure if you open your eyes you'll end up horking bile down your chin. Your ears are ringing, and you can't quite find your hands. All you can really think about is breathing.

As if that's not enough, you start feeling a pressure from the directionless direction you've learned to recognize as 'magic', and it's so _heavy_. It's ugly with a frighteningly lonely kind of ugliness, like a mortally wounded soldier taking too long to die, like a small skeleton in a mass grave, like a wheat field burned just before the harvest. The kind of thing that makes you want to kick over the whole world and quit.

When you finally dare open your eyes, you see Anvil sitting as still as he always does, but his eyes are rolled back and weeping smoke, and there's a disturbing shiver in the air around him. That heavy emptiness beats from him like silent thunder.

Oh, shit. Is this how he communicates with the Prince? No wonder he didn't want to do it.

Abruptly, the pressure is gone. Anvil gives a whole-body twitch, dives for the chamberpot, and empties his stomach. He kneels over it, panting and spitting, for a long time before wearily hauling himself back into his chair. His eyes focus on you. "I have done as you wished," he rasps.

Damn it, you wanted to write the message out so it couldn't be misinterpreted. Saying that now would just be mean, though. You give a tiny nod and whisper, "Thanks."

"It was not a favor. You convinced me your concern has merit. It's true that my lord is a master of strategy and tactics. It's true that, of late, he has not displayed his customary brilliance, quite likely due to overwork. And it's true that the Titan is, in theory, possessed of the same genius as his brother. Therefore we would be foolish, now that the Titan has pushed their rivalry to open conflict, to discount the possibility of sabotage."

He's got the main points down, anyway. Good. "What did he say?"

"He will investigate."

You sigh. It's half relief and half just labored breathing, but Anvil takes it as a prompt, and adds reluctantly, "Also, that I am to watch over you. For if you die, the world can burn for all he cares."

"He's such a drama queen," you murmur fondly. After a while you add, "Thanks. For sticking around."

"I have my orders."

That's not what you mean, but whatever. You're spent. You guess he doesn't need to know, anyway -- that you've never been used to sleeping alone, there was always Aradia, and then you were in barracks or in a six-man tent, and the silence of a solo room just gets to you. Telling him he's almost a friend, which makes missing your Rebel friends a little bit less painful, would just be oversharing. So you don't say anything.

His chair scrapes. "I'm merely fetching a servant to clean up," he says in a reassuring tone. "I will continue to work here."

Glad to know someone will be on watch, you stop fighting and let sleep claim you yet again.

* * *

The next time you can string two thoughts together, Anvil's ream of fresh paper is half as thick as it was last time you noticed it. Days worth of work. You're so tired of losing time.

"Did I relapse?"

He turns to you with the first overt smile you've seen on him. It's tiny and awkward, but it's there. "Don't trouble yourself. I've made significant progress while you slept. His Highness has informed me that he's uncovered some intriguing clues, and thanks you for your insight. The balance of the war has not shifted, nor have any leaders of significance been slain. You're free to rest."

You give a dry chuckle. "Did you rehearse that?"

This actually surprises a flash of teeth out of him before he gets the smile under control. "I may have... jotted down the salient points."

"Never change, man." You yawn. It makes your jaw ache, but not in the sick way everything ached before. You dare to stretch a little, and it feels good. So good, wow. You're tired afterwards, but muscle-tired, not overcooked-noodle tired. "I feel _awesome_."

Anvil raises a skeptical brow.

"Okay, no, I still feel like shit, but I'm pretty sure I'm not actively dying anymore."

"I will inform Undine." He starts to rise.

"Aw, no, wait. Ugh, I don't want to deal with the water ball right now. Lemme just enjoy feeling warm enough for a while."

He settles with a genuine chuckle. "Very well."

"Wow, you're in a good mood. What's up with that?" He doesn't answer right away, and you get the impression his hesitation is bashful. He's a lot easier to read than Undine. "C'mon," you prompt. "Good news is good. Lay it on me."

He tries to hold out, but he's clearly bursting to tell someone. All you have to do is look sympathetically expectant, and he gives. "I have had a letter from Miss Tiger."

"What? How?" You don't have to fake your glad surprise. It's good to know she's alive. "You've been here the whole time, and..." No point listing all the other barriers to sending mail across battle lines.

"She left it in a place --" He breaks off.

"Aww. Did you guys arrange a dead drop? Seriously? That is so fucking _cute_."

"I should not have agreed to it. If we were discovered, it would look... like something it's not. But we promised to exchange only personal communication!"

"You're not a double agent, I get it. So what'd she say?"

"That is none of your business, Captor," he says primly.

You grin, because that tells you exactly what kind of letter it was, and in response you get to see what it looks like when a guy that dark blushes like a kid. It's surprisingly visible. "Well, if you guys ever need my help, say the word."

You mean it, too. Other people's romances are just data points to you, as a general rule, but for some reason you genuinely give a shit whether Tiger and Anvil have a chance. Maybe being in love yourself has made you sentimental, just like all the dumb stories say. Maybe it's the way they're going about it. A dead drop. That is adorable. If they encrypt their love letters, you fucking swear you're gonna offer to be godfather to their weird, bloodthirsty sprogs.

Can Taken even --?

Wow, you are _not_ going there.

You do him a favor and change the subject before things get downright corny in here. "Any hits on the cipher?"

"Maybe." He opens your writing case and takes out a few pages that aren't yours; you can tell because they're the white mulberry paper Undine's servants provided, not the canary onionskin you brought with you. He hasn't been saving all his scratch paper; there are only a few sheets. He finds the one he wants quickly and hands it over.

He circled the relevant section, and you can see at a glance what he found. He explains it anyway, a little nervously, like a student trying to talk up a bad grade. "I'm not as practiced at spotting valid word fragments as you no doubt are, but that place where 'Darkleer' gave me 'TFORLOWE' is promising."

You beckon for the rest. "Yeah, that's a probable," you murmur absently as you shuffle through the papers. "Hey, and 'Mindfang' gave you 'ONWHICHI' here, that's even better. 'Which' doesn't just pop up by accident very often." Shuffle, shuffle. "Gimme a pen."

"I've already had a chewing-out from Undine for letting you exhaust yourself into a relapse over Titan's possible treachery, and I do not require another, thank you very much."

"I just want to mark some things. You've got a lot of maybes. There are rules we can apply. Here, where 'weapons' gets you 'MBERVAR' --"

"Assuming 'vary' adds a 'g', which tells me little, but longer guesses like 'variance' were clearly wrong. As for 'MBER', the last letter of the previous word is so hard to judge. I couldn't choose between 'ember', 'umber', and 'amber'; I eliminated 'remember' and 'slumber', at least."

"How about 'timber'?"

"Oh." He takes the sheet from you. His pen scratches. "How does 'my weapons' sound to you?"

"Sounds like plaintext, my friend. Let's call it good."

"And the others?"

Since he won't give you a pen, you show him which possible hits to call strong and which ones to give up on. He learns eagerly, and starts identifying stronger matches after only a few minutes' explanation. Working with him is pleasant enough that you're genuinely disappointed when you find yourself too tired to continue.

You don't just flop down like a sack of rotten onions this time, at least. You stretch and yawn, arrange your blanket, cross your arms behind your head. Yeah, that feels nice.

"When I'm a little stronger," you muse, "I want to interrogate Hush and Shatter."

Anvil knocks over his inkwell.


	26. Strategic Asset Management For Dummies

"Absolutely not!" Anvil says, and you just make a sleepy humming noise and let it go. You have a theory on how to handle him.

You're recovering rapidly now. Undine pronouces you well enough to sit up and write for short periods, and no longer in need of the water-ball treatment. You don't see her again after that. You suspect she's scrambling to make up the time she lost dealing with you. You're not sure what precisely she does, but you're guessing something to do with naval communications and scouting; the mermaids would be brilliant for that.

Once you can get up and move around a bit on your own, a servant takes you to a warm pool and you get to have a soak. It's only a bit down the hall, so you don't see much of the building, but everything you do see is made of salvaged wood and spell-bubbles, with a bit of stone or inlaid coral here and there. Not very ostentatious, considering Undine's rank.

The servants don't act like palace servants either. There aren't many of them, they aren't in livery, and although they're quiet and respectful, they don't have that bombastic humility people put on for dealing with the very powerful. You've met servants like this before somewhere, but it's not until you're back in your freshly changed bed -- well-scrubbed, clean-shaven, hair trimmed, wearing real clothes at last -- that you remember where. You and Karkat spent three nights in a common-born general's house once, gathering allies and talking strategy, and his household staff dressed and acted like this.

Did Undine rise through the ranks, then, rather than being born to power? Not enough data, but it's interesting to think about.

You keep picking at the cipher. You get through the proper names on your half of the list and start on the vocabulary words. 'Supply'; 'defend'; 'assault'. You decided not to bother with words of fewer than six letters, to keep the false positives down, but it means each word takes longer to get through.

You consider adding place names to the list, but decide against it; there are too many of them, and besides, anyone security-conscious enough to choose a cipher this hard would probably avoid referring to locations by name. The Rebels were already using cute code names for cities when you joined, and when you became spymaster you came up with a more flexible standard. They'd been calling Radiant 'The Bell And Candle', for instance, as if it was a pub name, but you switched it to N-2 -- i.e. the second largest city in Normadden. It seems probable the Orphaner is doing something similar. You've learned your lesson about underestimating people, and work on the assumption that the Orphaner's spymaster is as good as you are.

Of course, that being the case, the message will certainly be obsolete by the time you crack it. It's already at least two months out of date. But any data is good data, especially with such big questions on the table.

Every few hours, you prod Anvil about interrogating the prisoners. He refuses; you drop it. He gets annoyed with this pretty quickly, but his breeding won't let him express it if you don't argue. By the middle of the second day, he's irritated enough to start trying to change your mind rather than just issuing flat denials.

"They are maintained in a state of unconsciousness."

"So un-maintain them."

"They are kept unconscious for a _reason_."

You shrug and go back to work.

And the next time you bring it up: "Torture is useless against Taken. Particularly those two."

"Give me some credit, man, I never use torture if I have other options. I've got plenty of leverage without it."

"How many times do I have to tell you? _No_ , you may not interrogate them."

You make a noncommittal noise, yawn, and take a nap.

And the next time: "You don't have the authority to negotiate."

"But _you_ do. We don't need to offer them freedom or jewels or a pony. I'm pretty sure I can get the job done with stuff I could afford out of pocket at a decent inn."

He hesitates. "Such as...?"

You hide a smile. You've got him. "Nicer quarters, better food, basic amenities, reading material, chances to visit each other. Most of my leverage is going to be mental."

"Empty threats?"

"They won't want to go back to the Titan, and they've got to be scared of the re-Taking process. That's all I need."

"They're insane, not stupid. They won't fall for such a simple carrot-and-stick approach. Anything they won't tell you just for asking, you won't be able to bully out of them."

"I thought you respected me, Anvil. I'm a _specialist_."

He lifts a sheet of scratched-out cipher tries. You shake your head pityingly.

"Crypto's just a fraction of what I do. Intel comes from people first. The truth is, I've gotten more and better information from cooperative resources than from captured enemies. Refugees, paid informants, random civilians who just happened to be nearby when shit went down. You can't go after those hammer and tongs, you have to lead them by the hand."

"I wouldn't call Hush and Shatter cooperative, precisely."

"Not yet."

"You're very confident."

"These are damn near ideal conditions for turning an asset. Those guys are so close to rock bottom that any direction looks like up." You put down your pen and give him a serious, professional-to-professional type of look. "Interrogation is a science. I'll show you."

He takes a deep breath. He shakes his head, but it's exasperation, not refusal. "I'll give you a chance. But I'll be watching you the whole time."

"I'd appreciate that."

"It will take some hours to wake them safely." He stands. Hesitates. "You honestly believe you can gain their voluntary cooperation?"

You refrain from retorting, _I got yours, didn't I?_ You just say, "Yes."

"Very well." He goes.

Theory: confirmed. The process for handling Anvil successfully is as follows: keep introducing the topic, but don't engage with his reflexive refusals. He doesn't like change, and he doesn't like not being in charge, so he'll block you automatically at first. Repetition without escalation eventually gets the idea through that blockage. Once he starts asking questions, appeal to reason. You're pretty sure that'll work every time, as long as what you're proposing is logically sound.

You guess a lot of people would consider you cold and manipulative. But they do the same thing to each other subconsciously, haphazardly, through a blinding fog of culture or fear or hope or authority-worship. At least you make an effort to see Anvil as he really is.

While he's gone, you get out a fresh sheet of paper and start planning your approach for Shatter and Hush. In order to turn them, you're going to have to see _them_ as they are too.

You just hope they're not as crazy as they seem.

 

* * *

 

It's convenient that your plan requires presenting yourself as nonthreatening, because you wouldn't have been able to walk the distance to where Shatter and Hush are being kept. Undine provides you with a wicker wheelchair; makes her cooperation contingent on you using it, in fact. With a blanket over your knees, wearing wool gloves to save your palms from the wheels' wooden rims, you feel like you're dressed up as an old man for a play.

Then Anvil takes you outside, and you just feel silly, because even with his water-breathing spell, the wheelchair floats.

The shipwreck city is every bit as vast as you remember it. It sprawls down the slope of a reef like a port city in a bowl of mountains, and some of the reef has grown in suspiciously squarish shapes. As your eyes adjust to the dim blue light, you spot doors and windows in it. The wood-and-bubble buildings glimmer with lamplight, humans (or human-looking people, anyway) moving about within them. A few merfolk dart between the buildings, or in and out of the reef, but aside from a few curious stragglers they're making themselves scarce.

Mermaid guards escort you. You study them curiously while Anvil wrestles your buoyant chair along. Of the four, two have fish tails -- one sleek as a tuna, one trailing sharp lionfish spines -- one is long like an eel, and one has two sturdy legs ending in clawed flippers like a leopard seal's. They wear brigandine hauberks and vambraces of shell plates and sharkskin, which glimmer like something more decorative than functional. You wonder if they're brittle like natural shells, or if they're somehow laminated for flexibility like the lacquered wood mail worn by those mountain archers the Company faced a few years back. Those guys were hell to fight. Not that the mermaids would be pushovers even if they were unarmored.

You expected tridents and nets. Merfolk in paintings always have those. Then again, in paintings, merfolk look human above the waist. These mermaids are armed only with cestus-like gloves with spikes on the palms; they look more like climbing equipment than weapons. When one speaks some glubbing language to order a civilian merman out of your way, you start to understand; she has teeth like a shark. The civilian shoots away like an arrow with a single flick of his tail; fast as a dolphin, maybe faster.

Maneuverable as they are in the water, and with a mouthful of razors like that... your guess is that the gloves are for holding their prey in place for a lethal bite. You wouldn't be surprised if some of these merfolk were venomous as well, or could shock like an electric eel. _You_ certainly wouldn't want to tangle with them.

They take you past a curve of the reef, out of sight of the city. You begin to wonder just how far you're going, because you see nothing before you but undulating white sand. Not even kelp forest. You're starting to get tired just from sitting in this chair and breathing the thick humidity of the spell's air, and the thought of spending hours like this makes you a little panicky.

Then a chill of magic passes over your skin, and the prison is right in front of you.

Whoops. Of course Anvil was hiding them. That's his thing he does. You feel like a dumbass for not realizing it.

There are no walls. It's just a large bubble caged in a frame of coral-encrusted pillars. A handful of guards swim around it, in no pattern you can discern. Some of them are mermen; apparently only Undine's palace staff are all female. In the center of the otherwise empty bubble, Hush and Shatter lie curled on the sand, still skewered with arrows, holding hands.

A sharp pang of pity hits you right in the gut. It annoys you. This is getting to be a habit. Falling for the Prince, admiring Undine, making friends with Anvil -- and now you're going to feel sorry for two of the craziest Taken ever made, who may or may not still be the Titan's creatures, just because they're buddies and they're sad? This is just not on. _Acting_ sympathetic is part of your plan, but if you lose your detachment you won't be able to manipulate them, and manipulating them is your goddamn _job_. You need to pull it together.


	27. Fish Butts

The wheelchair won't roll on sand. Anvil just carries you. He sets you down too far from them at first; you have to tell him, "Closer."

The wounded Taken look at you with dull, suffering eyes. You remember the bone-breaking heaviness you felt when you stabbed your leg; you can't imagine what they're going through, actual mages with magekiller arrows resident in their ribcages, mortally wounded and unable to die... _Ugh. Stop it, Captor. You have work to do._ Well, if you can't stop pitying them, you might as well use it for versimilitude.

"We need to get those arrows out," you tell Anvil, loud enough that they can hear you but not so loud it sounds projected for their benefit. "There's got to be a less invasive method for damping their magic."

Anvil makes a skeptical sound. "Shackles could be obtained," he says reluctantly. "They would regain their physical strength, however."

"And this holding facility -- it's secure, yes, but that's all it is. Move them closer to my quarters."

His nostrils flare; you warned him you'd suggest that, but you didn't tell him you'd make it an order. Before he can refuse on principle -- or clumsily try to play along -- you add humbly, "Please. I can't debrief them like this."

Hush gives a slow blink. Shatter lifts his head slightly. Good, they're thinking.

"I will see what I can do," Anvil says. You gesture that you want to leave. He picks up your chair.

All the way back, he keeps quiet. You know it's possible to talk while water-breathing, you talked Echo's ear off on the way in, and you know he has questions, but he's not going to say anything in front of the constabulary. Which suggests, by implication, that your room is secure, or at least that he thinks it is. Interesting.

Only once you're back in bed and the servants dismissed does he speak up. "I thought you would ask them at least one or two questions. Is this part of your plan?"

You nod wearily. "I was just telling them who I am, at this point."

"They know who you are. I can't imagine Titan sent them to kidnap you without at least a little information about you."

"No, I mean..." You wave a hand, searching for words. This trip really wore you out. You're still a long way from well. "They know now that I'm working for you. You guys. The Prince." Deep breath; organize your thoughts; keeping Anvil in the loop is part of the work, you can't relax yet. "They know I'm here to do a job. They know I'm not too cowed to push you for concessions, but I can't overrule you. They know I used the word 'debrief' rather than 'interrogate' -- Hush spotted that one for sure, I saw his eyes dilate. So now they're putting it together, and coming to the conclusion that I'm going to be trying to get some information from them, and that I'm going to be as civilized about it as you let me be."

"You put your request rudely on purpose, to get my hackles up." He sounds thoughtful, not angry. "Efficient. The things you asked for -- do you genuinely wish me to provide them?"

"How bothersome are the shackles?"

"They will ache like ice held against the skin, and raise sores if left in place too long. They're far from pleasant. Less distressing than a weapon fixed in a wound, though, certainly."

"Any serious danger of escape?"

He considers. "No," he says slowly, "not so long as Undine or I remain in residence."

"Over-shackle them a bit. Let me argue you down to the minimum bindings later. Also, house them separately so I can reward them with time together."

"I begin to see your method."

"You _begin_ ," you grin, and the snort he gives you at that is almost a laugh.

 

* * *

 

Anvil's not there when you next wake up. He comes in an hour or so later when you're struggling with strength exercises. He watches as if you're a curious specimen he can't classify. You ignore him until you finish the set. You flop back onto the floor, arms spread out, and give him an irritated look. All this inactivity is giving your old creeping melancholy a foothold, and the prospect of being crippled by emotional fatigue and self-doubt while so much may be riding on your skills is terrifying. The sooner you can get back to keeping yourself constantly busy, the better.

"I've lost too much mobility and muscle mass, lying in bed for so long. It's time to start getting it back."

"Obviously," he says. "Your regimen isn't particularly effective, though."

You snort. "Not everyone can be a muscle beast like you."

"That's not what I mean. Get on the bed. We'll start with your core."

"Ooh, naughty."

He rolls his eyes. You get on the bed. He gestures where he wants your limbs, but doesn't touch you. "No, don't put your hands behind your head. Put them down at your sides like so -- a bit farther out."

"For sit-ups? I'll just end up pushing myself with my hands."

"Instead of sitting up, lift your legs. No, straight, keep them together. Slower. Hold... and slowly lower them."

You let out a half-panting breath. "Why the fuck is that so _hard_?"

"Because you're working your thighs as well, and all these muscles in here, and your arms and shoulders a little as you balance yourself."

"Huh. Easier on my back, too."

"Precisely. Do four more, holding each for a count of five."

Awkward as this feels -- as if he's suddenly some combination of drill sergeant and dancing master, and you're his star pupil, where the hell did that even come from? -- you do need to get your strength back, and he does seem to know what he's doing. So you follow his instructions. By the last repetition, your legs are shaking wildly, and you're drenched in sweat. You let your legs fall rather than lowering them properly.

Anvil nods approvingly, and you feel proud despite yourself. He says, "Rest for at least an hour before you try again. You've been _very_ ill."

"No shit," you grumble. Then you add, "Sorry," because it's not his fault. He's being helpful. "Where'd you go?"

"I sent some dispatches. Your cipher is not the only work I've been doing while I keep you company."

"Any of it go to the Prince?"

"Yes. I sent him a status report on Hush and Shatter. Perhaps I should've waited in case you wished to send him a private message?"

"No, I wouldn't..."

"You wouldn't abuse official channels for personal communication."

"Hell no."

His cheeks bunch slightly. "I know. Which is why I took it upon myself to mention that you're mending well, that you speak of him fondly, and that I am keeping you hidden and safe."

" _Anvil_. You old softie."

"He _did_ command me to watch over you." He clears his throat awkwardly. "I may also have mentioned your recovery to Miss Tiger, and assured her you've kept your promise with regard to rendering no assistance against the Rebels."

"I owe you one, man," you grin.

"Please. No. What I do of my own free will incurs no debt."

"Yeah, well, if you need a hand sometime, my own free will might just prompt me to help you out." Okay, you'd better get off this topic before he dies of mortification. "How about our favorite pair of job applicants, they up for a talk yet?"

"I believe so. I had the interrogation room prepared to your specifications."

" _Interview_ room."

"Is that a pertinent distinction?"

"Words are important. I'm building trust here." You stretch, testing your body. Legs still feel a bit shaky, but you'll be fine with the chair. "Let's go get started."

"It's the middle of the night," he points out.

"Like any of us have a normal sleep schedule. Shatter first. Tell the guards to be calm and professional, but not overtly nice. No shoving, but don't ask how he's doing, kind of thing."

"Hmm. Establishing a baseline of neutrality," he says, looking through you as if filing it away for later study, and then he goes to summon your wheelchair.

Not for the first time, you wonder if, by teaching him some of your techniques, you're indirectly acting against the Rebels. For all you know, he'll start using your methods on prisoners of war. But the Titan and the Condesce are potentially huge threats, and the Prince isn't in charge of the Rebel front. It's an acceptable risk.

 

* * *

 

The interview room is perfect. Small, almost cramped; crowded by a desk and two hard wooden chairs, and the addition of your wheelchair will block the door. Brightly lit, windowless, and plain. Merciless without being outright threatening.

Shatter is already there, perched on his chair with his arms, legs, and neck shackled by heavy bands of black-and-silver. Chains from ankles to wrists to collar further limit his motion. He's ashen-skinned, listing to starboard, and his nose is running. He's been dressed in clean clothes. You can see a bit of bandage where the shirt buttons gape; he's done them up crooked, and he missed one. His shaggy hair almost covers his face.

That won't do. You need to see his expression.

Anvil takes his place behind the desk. A guard wheels you in and parks you; she turns to go, but you motion for her to wait. She looks human, as all the indoor staff do, but she moves a little oddly, which suggests she's a mermaid transformed or glamored. "Take those chains off, please."

She looks to Anvil for confirmation. He says, "Those chains are there for a reason."

"He's not going to attack me. He's a defector, not a wild animal. He wants to cooperate."

Shatter gives a jerky nod. Of course, that only means he wants the chains off, but he let the word 'defector' fly, which is a good start.

Anvil gives a put-upon sigh. "Remove the chains," he tells the guard. "Not the manacles."

"And the collar," you add, but you close your fist down by the wheel of your chair, indicating that he should refuse you.

"Not the collar," he says. "Captor, I only allowed this because you agreed to follow my instructions. No more coddling."

Shatter's peering at you through a gap in his bangs. You give him a little what-can-you-do shrug; he glances upward and thins his mouth. You add the first item to your mental list of Shatter's body language. You don't know what it means yet, but you will.

Once the guard has left with the chains, you adjust your seat in the wheelchair, visibly getting comfy for a long session. "This isn't an interrogation," you begin. "Just an interview. How are you feeling?"

Shatter began sitting a little straighter as soon as the chains were off. Now he makes an awkward effort to square his shoulders. He lifts his cuffed hands to shove his hair out of his face, wipes his nose on his wrist. His eyes are both magical prosthetics, gemstones set in ivory, which is going to make him harder to read. You can watch their direction, but they don't dilate like natural eyes. His expression is subdued defiance with an undercurrent of fear; how much of that is genuine, time will tell.

"Don't bullship me, Casper," he says. "The Prints will get efterything I know when he Tapes me. I won'p help you jerks fuck him." Then he snickers a little, as if surprised by his own innuendo.

Mental note: Shatter is fairly intelligent; sane enough to consider the implications of his situation; sometimes talks without thinking.

"Yeah, I think that might be a little too kinky for him," you say, which gets another snicker from Shatter and a warning glare from Anvil. "But seriously, what does that even mean?"

"Tch!" He makes a gesture that probably would've worked better without the manacles. "You make me talk, then I have an apscident prefore he gets here. Now you know shit he doescn't know, woot woot backstamping ungerlings one, Prinks zero!"

"Oh, no, no," you say mildly, waving that off with slight amusement. "Nah, man, that'd be dumb."

" _You're_ dumb."

"Think it through, okay?"

"No."

"If we wanted to help the Titan, we'd kill you _without_ talking to you, right? Because if we know it, the Prince can find out."

He narrows his eyes. Takes a breath. Slumps slightly. "Oh. I'm sorry."

Is he really this easily bullied? Or is this an act? "Don't worry about it. It's not like you were in prime thinking condition."

"But then... I don't... get it?"

Mental note: Shatter doesn't know anything that could hurt the Prince without benefitting the Titan. Or at least, doesn't know he knows. If there's a third player in the game, Shatter's not involved with them.

"He gave me the okay to get your voluntary cooperation because it's just plain better, dude. Less chance you'll get your head extra scrambled by the Taking, thing one." You tilt your head toward Anvil. "Look at this guy. Almost totally sane, and I'm pretty sure that stick up his ass was there before the Prince put the whammy on him."

"Captor," Anvil says wearily.

Shatter says, "So if I jusp dong fight it --"

You don't let him finish. "Thing two, he doesn't just want facts and images, he wants your take on stuff. Your opinions, your observations. He knows you're not stupid."

"But --"

"Like I said, it's not an interrogation. I know you don't want to go back to the Titan. That's good enough for me."

He studies you for a minute. Then he looks away with a slight shrug.

"So how are you feeling?"

He gives a bleak laugh. "I feel like ship, how do you thrink I feel?"

"That arrow wound closed up yet?"

"Nope! Still got a mextra hole all teh way frough. Guess how many dicks I can take now?"

This time you join in his juvenile snickering. "Dude, you're filthy. I'll ask Undine if there's anything we can do to get that healed."

"What's with the roll-ass fail throne?" He points at your chair.

"Remember when I stabbed myself to break Hush's spell?"

"That was a fupking crazy-asp stunt!" he says admiringly.

"It worked, didn't it? But then I got blood poisoning from the river water."

"Heheh, swimming's for chumpass fishfuckers, buptnugget!"

"Hey now," you grin.

"Some of thosde mermadades are hawp. They keep swimbing around with no pants on, eheheh."

"Yeah, but they don't have any butts, either."

"They have FISH BUTTS!" he crows, as happy as a two-year-old who just learned the word 'poop'.

Anvil facepalms. You wish you'd worked out a hand signal for 'I owe you a drink', because this interview is just beginning.


	28. Compartmentalization

You talk with Shatter about nothing in particular for about another hour. Both of you are tired at the end of it, but he's fading faster. You wait until he's almost falling off his chair, just to see if fatigue turns off his self-editing, and then you 'notice'.

"Shit, man, you're losing it. Do we need to be done? You better go lie down."

"Sup to you, innit?" he grins wanly, and you shrug acknowlegment.

"Yeah, let's get you back to your room. I wish I could go nap too, but I gotta talk to Hush now."

"Pfft. You can _talk_ to him…"

"He can write his answers."

"Maybe."

_Oh, come on, Shatter, it needs to be your idea._ "It'll be a little awkward, but I don't know what else we can do. I'm pretty sure Anvil won't unshackle him so he can talk into my brain."

"Like you dump know sime lambage."

That one takes you a moment. "Sign language? No. Is that how you talk to him?" _Come on, it's so obvious._ Maybe you let him get _too_ tired.

Shatter rolls his eyes, an oddly mechanical motion with those prosthetics. "It's how _he_ tops to _me_. He can _hear_ just find."

"Well, yeah, that's what I meant."

"How dung a spy not know sign lameage?"

You shrug. "I'm ComInt, mostly. I do codes and ciphers." The guard knocks twice and comes in; Anvil must've signaled her somehow. You swallow a sigh as you wheel your chair aside so she can get past.

The guard helps him stand. Just as you've concluded he's not going to hand you the leash after all, he finally gives it up: "I could tranklape. Tampsplate." He grunts frustration. "Trampulate!"

"Translate," you supply.

"If you know what I mean, asshole, bretend I said it right!"

"Sorry," you grin. "Yeah, that's not a bad --"

"No," Anvil says.

"Why not? It's a good solution."

"No. That's not the procedure."

"At least think about it." You open your closed hand.

"I'll think about it," Anvil says grudgingly.

As Shatter is ushered out of the room, he says forlornly, "Bye!"

The door shuts. You let your head fall against the wicker chair back, eyes closed, and let out a long sigh. God, you want to lie down so bad. "That went well."

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic," Anvil says.

"No, it was really good. At the end there I wasn't sure he was going to give me the handle, but he figured it out eventually."

"You mean, asking to translate for Hush." You hear his chair creak as he leans back. You picture him steepling his fingers to go with his thoughtful tone. "You wanted him to ask, because… because if you simply offered, it would be too obvious?"

"It'd feel like a bribe. This way, it's a transaction. It establishes give-and-take, and puts him in the position of asking for what he wants rather than passively judging our offers. Also, it'll give both of them the sense that we're trusting them."

"To a certain extent, that would be true. It would give them an opportunity to pass information, after all."

"Nah. I know three kinds of sign language."

Anvil sighs. "Of course you do. Tell me the last hour of bizarre and scatalogical small talk wasn't all for nothing but that."

"I learned a lot, actually --" You break off. You hear footsteps in the hall, and the clink of chains. Showtime again.

Hush carries himself with the dignity of an emperor. He moves like a sleepwalker, and there's a tremor in his hands, but he holds his chin high and his back straight, and makes unhurried eye contact with both of you. While you go through the charade of asking for the chains to be taken off, he makes no gesture except to lift his wrists slightly for the guard's convenience.

Anvil pushes a stack of paper and a charcoal pencil to the middle of the desk so Hush can't quite reach it from where he's sitting. "This isn't an interrogation," you tell him, just like you told Shatter. "Just an interview. How are you feeling?"

He leans toward the desk, hesitates. It's going to be awkward. That's deliberate. You want him thinking about little inconveniences, not about what he's going to write. But he's not going to play your game, apparently; he stands, ignores Anvil's order to sit back down, crosses his manacled wrists with a graceful little twist so his non-writing hand doesn't get in the way, and neatly prints:

**IMPATIENT**

"Why, you have somewhere to be?"

He sets the pencil down and returns to his chair with an air of having done all he intends to do.

Well. This is going to be productive.

 

* * *

 

Anvil has to help you from the wheelchair to the bed. You mumble your thanks. He says, "I suppose I'll have to wait to hear what you found out. I myself detected almost no useful information in either exchange."

"Mhm. 'M starvin."

"I suppose that's a good sign," he says blandly.

You doze until he wakes you with a plate of bread rolls, sausage, and cheese. He assembles little sandwiches for you, which you chew slowly, eyes half-lidded. It tastes so good. You've been living on broth and oatmeal for too long. You can feel your strength returning with every mouthful you swallow. Your stomach has shrunk, though, and you can't finish.

"You take your duties seriously," you chuckle as you refuse the last roll.

"Of course I do."

"You didn't have to feed me by hand."

He sets the plate on the table and dusts his hands, looking at nothing in particular. He says slowly, "When my liege speaks into my mind, I can also glimpse his. You're there, every time. It's as if he bears your image like a talisman to remind him why he strives."

This news should warm you, you suppose, but it only worries you. "But he hasn't known me that long… it's not as if he wasn't 'striving' before…"

"Perhaps he's found a better purpose than pride."

You don't understand. What purpose? To impress you? You were impressed long before you met him. To protect you? It's not as if you're in any danger right now. To see you again? Any time he wanted, he could --

_No, don't be stupid. Don't be stupid, Sollux, because the Prince isn't stupid and no matter how melodramatic he is he does do things for a reason._

If he could come see you, he would. Even knowing -- well, having 'uncovered some intriguing clues' -- that the Titan is deliberately distracting him, he's still running around putting out fires. That means Titan's stepped up his game. And you're stuck here, unable to do a damn thing to help --

Bullshit. You're helping the only way you can. You're going to get Titan's plans out of Shatter and break that fucking cipher. That's what you're going to do for him. You're going to get him the information he needs to beat his brother. They might be evenly matched, but you've got your thumb on the scale. The Prince _has_ to win. Only then will he be able to come to you, or judge it safe for you to come to him.

"Fuck." You thump your head against the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut. "I was doing so well."

"What do you mean?"

"Not… thinking about him."

"You don't miss him?" You can _hear_ the raised eyebrow. "Forgive me if I doubt that."

You groan frustration. "Anvil, you're a very intelligent man, but you're not equipped to understand me. You're a hammer, you're an arrow. I'm a vaguely worded note slipped under a door in the middle of the night. You go through an army like a reaper through wheat, I've seen you do it -- from a distance, but I still just about pissed my pants. You're serious business, and I dig that. But you could never do what I do."

"Nor would I wish to."

"Yeah, nobody likes a spy," you chuckle bleakly. "But I can do more damage with a five-by-five block of random numbers than you can do with every weapon in your arsenal."

"And the relevance of this flattery and self-congratulation is…?"

"Before I can play other people's minds, I have to control my own."

You hesitate. You're not sure it's a good idea to tell him any of this. But it's worth the risk, you think; a little vulnerability to build a lot of trust. He's a strong ally. He loves the Prince like a priest loves his god, and if he thinks you're using his master he's going to turn on you.

Also, it just feels good to confide in someone who's not too blinded by convention to listen properly.

You wipe your hands down your face and forge ahead. "I'm not actually a sociopath, you know. But sometimes I have to think like one or people die. When I signaled you to refuse me about taking the prisoners' collars off, for instance -- it's not that I don't know it hurts them, but at that moment I couldn't allow myself to care. In order to find out what the Titan is up to, for the Prince's sake, maybe for the sake of the Rebels, maybe for the sake of the whole world if the Titan's in bed with the Condesce, I have to control every step of their reconditioning. It has to be logic making those calls, not pity."

"I know all this. Did I judge you? I did not. You seem to be implying that thinking about His Highness would cause you to make poor decisions, but --"

"Of course it would! Anvil, for fuck's sake, look at your choices -- you're trading love notes with a Rebel scout. For all you know she could be playing you. I believe she's not, and you trust her, but from an operational point of view it's a truly shitty move."

He draws a breath, but says nothing. He _knows_ you're right and _feels_ you're wrong, and he's smart enough to see that that's your point.

"If I let myself think about the Prince," you go on, "I'm going to make that kind of mistake. Abusing official channels for private communications would only be the start of it. I might think I have something to report when I don't. I might misinterpret the intel I'm getting from the prisoners in a light that suggests he can drop whatever knives he's juggling right now and come see me. I can't do that, do you understand? There's too much at stake."

He shakes his head slightly. "And everything is on you, because no one else is qualified to take responsibility for their own actions," he drawls. But before you can argue any more, he says, "Very well, I will refrain from reminding you that your lover loves you, lest you remember that you love him as well and lose your grip on logic."

"Thanks," you say with heavy sarcasm, "I appreciate that."

"In service to that goal, I am now changing the subject. Explain what you learned from today's 'interviews', because for my part, I am mystified how you can count them anything but a complete waste of time."

Ironically, you find yourself reluctant to leave the topic. You want to hear more about what he's glimpsed in the Prince's mind. You want to dwell on your longing and loneliness, cradle the ache in your hands like a nest of tinder and blow on the sparks. It takes a truly unpleasant wrench of willpower to pack it all back into its box and lock it away.

"All I'd really hoped for at this stage," you say with hard-won detachment, "was to learn their tells. In the initial interview, you ask the subject innocuous questions, give them some harmless information to process, and watch their body language as they answer. Or, in Hush's case, don't answer. Shatter's a bit tricky, since his eyes are artificial, but he rambles, and I think there's some information buried in the way he garbles words."

"Mostly innuendo, if you ask me."

"That's a front. He's learned that rudeness makes people keep their distance -- he's vulnerable, or feels he is. You can tell by the way he latched onto me. Without Hush's shadow to hide in, he instinctively reached for a new protector. I don't think he would've trusted gentleness, but banter, laughing at his jokes, that hit him in the right spot, and now he sees me as a friend even if he knows intellectually that I'm not. He won't just spill everything right away, but he'll wish he could. 'Backstamping hungerlings'? -- he's not just willing to slip a knife in the Titan's kidney if the price is right. He _dreams_ of beating him to a humiliated pulp." You hesitate, wondering if you're jumping to conclusions for emotional reasons. "This is only speculation at this stage. It might turn out to mean nothing. But I think the Titan bullies him particularly. There's this sort of tentative defiance… mischeviousness, but always with his weight on the back leg, ready to jump away… do you know what I mean?"

Anvil shrugs. "You're the expert. What about Hush? If you say you got anything useful from him, I _will_ be impressed."

"Are you kidding? He's an open book."

With the bland satisfaction of a craftsman putting the last touch on an especially tedious commission, Anvil plucks the uneaten roll from the table and snap-pitches it at your face. You're too tired to dodge; you just duck, and it bounces off the crown of your head and rolls off behind the bed somewhere.


	29. The Third Option

"All right, but he did tell me more than he meant to," you laugh. "He's so busy not cooperating that he thinks furiously about everything he's not saying. Sign language uses more than just the hands, he's used to talking with his whole body, and when he focuses on keeping his hands still the rest of him is having an entire conversation."

"And you somehow know what it means even though he refused to answer."

"I only have to know what body language is associated with what topic. In terms of body language, compared to Shatter, Hush is a chatterbox."

"Hm. Your method may be too intuitive for me to learn."

"It's just observation. Okay, for instance: when he was consciously choosing to be obstinate, he made deliberate eye contact with both of us. Me first, and then you, as if pointing out that he hasn't forgotten you're there. When he felt the topic was trivial, his eyes wandered up and to the right -- the point of the room farthest from himself. Disengaging. When I talked neutrally about Shatter, he gave me the stink-eye at first, his chin went down a little, shoulders up, hands in fists -- protective big brother posture. Then I let him see I got along with Shatter and found him funny, and did you catch that little smile? He kept having to get rid of it and it kept coming back. Threw me a glare when he remembered to, but it was halfhearted. He's going to open up to anyone who likes Shatter. It'll take time but he won't be able to stop himself." Possibly too much time. All of this is taking too long. But it's better than not trying.

Anvil is staring at you. "I observed _none_ of this. I would swear he never smiled."

"It wasn't a _smile_ smile. Just a bunching of the cheek muscle."

"He should hate you. You defeated Shatter. He was wild with fury when I arrived, and now he's going to let you play friend-of-a-friend with him?"

"Apparently. Maybe because I was trying to rescue my friend just like he was. Or maybe humane treatment balances it out. Anyway, when I brought up the Titan, his jaw and neck tightened, and he looked _down_ and to the right -- toward the table, the closest solid surface. Drawing in, seeking shelter. He was clearly angry. Didn't even try to hide it. But when I mentioned anything the Titan had done or ordered them to do, even obliquely, he looked past my head to the left. At the door. And he started acting distracted."

"You have an interpretation for this behavior?" Anvil says.

"Maybe. It's hard with these two, because they're pretty crazy. But Shatter, on the same topics, he also got distracted. When I mentioned the kidnapping --"

"I don't remember you bringing it up."

"I brought it up like five times, Anvil. First I reminded him how I stabbed myself in the leg --"

"That counts as mentioning the kidnapping?"

"Yes! And he started talking about mermaid butts. Well, that's Shatter, he's a goof, right? But the second time, I mentioned him chatting with Tiger on the deck of the barge, and he went off on a tangent about this one time he ate a stink beetle on a dare. The third time, I reminded him how the alley he caught us in smelled like piss -- damn it, Anvil, don't tell me you were sitting there thinking the purpose of the interview was to giggle about pee like six-year-olds."

He clears his throat with tellingly exaggerated dignity. "I see the pattern now. As I recall, he offered to show you how he could put his ankle behind his neck."

"The farther up the chronology I went, the farther back toward the time he got his orders, the more desperate and unrelated the distractions were. But I didn't get the impression he saw them that way. His mind just… got flipped into a different track. I'm not sure he even noticed. He wasn't giving thinking signals."

"And you have a theory about what it means?"

"Not yet."

"I do." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Talking as teacher instead of student for the moment, and savoring it. "Were I the Titan -- all the gods forbid -- and master of such resentful slaves, I would take additional precautions against betrayal."

You nod. "Especially if he bullies Shatter the way I suspect he does."

"It's worse than that. When the Titan Took Hush, Hush -- too maddened by the Taking to consider the consequences, I suppose -- demanded that Shatter be Taken next. It… well. They were. Married. Before."

You headtilt. "To each other?" You weren't getting that sort of vibe from them.

" _No_ ," he says crossly, "they had wives! Whom the Titan slew, and they will not have forgotten that. Trivia can be erased from our minds, but even a magic as monstrous as Taking can't steal from us the memories that shaped us without also destroying the memories that make us useful. If, for example, the Titan were to capture me as we've captured those two, though he bind me with Taking upon Taking, he couldn't remove the memory of my loyalty to the Prince, because it was in the Prince's service that I learned both war and magic." He laces his fingers and looks down at them. "And that's only the civic devotion of a man-at-arms for a worthy master. Imagine how much deeper..." He clears his throat and doesn't finish.

"Shit." The very thought makes your guts clench. It could happen to you. If the Titan kills the Prince, you'll hate him until the sun dies. "You're right, he must have some extra hooks in them. There's no way they didn't kick like hell."

He nods. "Test it. Ask them directly about the Titan's plans, and see if they can answer even to refuse you. Because there _is_ a spell which causes the victim's mind to wander when they're queried about a certain topic. It's not used much, because the distraction is obvious enough to raise suspicions -- unless the victim is so mad already that leaping from kidnapping to contortionism would simply be seen as more of the usual."

"Give me my box. I need to write this down."

"You need to rest," he counters, but he hands it over.

"I will in a minute," you lie. "Tell me everything you know about that spell."

 

* * *

 

When you talk to Shatter again, you make small talk for a bit, letting the tension ease. You ask how his quarters are, he says they beat bare sand in a bubble but they're cold and damp and the mattress is mildewed, and you 'convince' Anvil to order clean mattresses and extra blankets for both Shatter and Hush.

Then you test Anvil's theory. You ask why the Titan had you kidnapped. Shatter starts talking about how his butt itches. You bring it back to small talk for another few minutes, then ask whether the Titan installed that corrupt governor to bring the Prince onto his turf. Shatter discourses at length about Zelwald's appearance and personal failings, but can't seem to address your questions.

Just to check whether he can talk about past events at all, you say, "What happened to your eyes?"

He snorts. "The intebrogation begins!"

Interesting; did he somehow not even register the far more interrogation-like questions you've already thrown at him? "No, this is just me asking. I've been wondering."

"Axe the big guy," he says, throwing Anvil a sharp look.

"Anvil?" you prompt.

Anvil shakes his head. "I only know that it happened… concurrent with your Taking. His Highness was on better terms with his brother then, but I myself was deployed in the North at the time."

"Like you didn't hear it laker. Our famous slapstick comedy act! Titan taps Hush on the shoulver and Hush whirlds around and hits me with the ladder, it's hilarinous!" The mad glee pasted on Shatter's face is hard to look at. "Then I fall on my ass in a bucket of paint, and Hush terms around again and _kills my wife_!"

You wince. "Shit, man, I didn't mean to bring that up."

"No, axe away, axe everything! We're subrosed to be _such good friends_!"

"That's… I'm sorry. It's not relevant. I didn't realize it was connected. We can drop it."

He doesn't seem to have heard you. "Titan made him do it. I don't blane him. He blames himslelf, he sewed his mouth shut so he can't bepray anyone elpse, wow, good thinking, Hush, that's not gonna have compsequenseds or anytheme!" He goes on from there, but you don't understand one word in three; his speech impediment has become impenetrable.

Now you're in the awkward position of having to decide whether to let him babble on, possibly giving you information but also becoming more upset, or shut him down and try to get back the amiable mood from earlier. You glance at Anvil to see how he's taking this. He's doing his statue pose, looking down at his hands; they're folded neatly on the desk, but the beds of his nails are bleached with how tightly he's clenching them.

It occurs to you to wonder whether he feels a kinship for other Taken, whether he feels for their tragedies. He's known Titan for a long time, even if he wasn't under his thumb. He knows the kind of shit that bastard gets up to.

Suddenly it dawns on you: there is a third option.

You meet Shatter's wild stare and say simply, sincerely, "That fucking sucks."

His rant garbles to a halt. He gives you a look of naked pain. Turning his palms up, he holds them out as if proffering an invisible present. His manacles chime. "My lashes," he says. For a moment you're confused, wondering if he means eyelashes or what, but then he closes his hands and spreads them in a sharp gesture, and you realize he means his lightning whips. "When I saw. I." He raises his hands to his face. Covers his eyes with his palms.

"Oh, _shit_ ," you breathe.

"But I flinched." He gives an exhausted laugh. "I lived. I only scrappled my brains."

"You remember Spinner?" you say.

He frowns. "What apout her?"

"She killed my sister." When he doesn't reply, you go on, "A friend of mine, Hawkeye, she killed Spinner. People like to say revenge doesn't solve anything, but it sure made _me_ feel better."

"It's not Hush's fault!" he shouts.

"No, it's Titan's."

He shuts his mouth with a snap. Scowls at you. "I see what you're doinging. Apreal to enotion. Don't."

"I wasn't going to. I fucking swear. Anvil told me some of what happened, but I wasn't going to pull that thread because there are some things you don't _do_ to an ally. Or a potential ally. But now I'm telling you straight out -- I'm not gaming you, this is all my cards on the table, okay? The Titan is a disease. The first time I met him, he tried to hypno-rape me just to piss off the Prince, and that's the _least_ destructive thing I've heard of him doing."

You're leaning forward, gesturing with both hands -- you can't signal Anvil this way, and he's looking at you like you've gone as crazy as Shatter, but you don't let that slow you down because you _finally know what you're doing here_. "I was going to do the whole meticulous asset management rigamarole with you," you confess. "Slowly build trust, establish a basis for negotiation, reward your cooperation with better quarters, better food --"

"I _know_ ," Shatter snaps. "I'm not a fucking civilian."

Well, that has interesting implications, but it doesn't matter now. "That was when I thought you were undecided. But you know what you want, don't you? You want to hurt the Titan. You want to make him pay. Help us figure out what he's doing. Help us beat him. He and the Prince are too evenly matched; it's up to us to make sure the Prince wins."

"Prove to me the Princh is any better, and I'm in," he challenges.

"You know he is."

"I don'p give a fcuck if he's _nicer_ , I wanna know he won't screw me owner!"

"What kind of proof would convince you?"

"Let me talk to him."

"He's not here. He's running around cleaning up Titan's messes."

" _Talk_ ," he repeats, frustrated, and taps his forehead with both forefingers. He wants a long-distance message so he can have a peek in the Prince's head.

"Out of the question," Anvil says. "The Titan may have left traps in your mind contingent on just such an eventuality."

Shatter grimaces, conceding. That's not a new idea to him. "All ripe then, how about Mister Congenitality here?" He points at you. "Lemme take a loop inslide your twisty spook brain."

"Done," you say.

Anvil slams his open hand on the table. " _No_."

"Anvil, we need to know what the Titan's planning, and we need it now, not weeks or months from now when Titan's artificial shitstorm lets up enough for the Prince to swing by. My original timetable for turning Shatter was already too long, but I thought it was the best we could do. If he's willing to throw in with us right away --"

"I absolutely forbid it."

"You're not actually my commanding officer," you point out. The tension in this room's cranked up high enough that it's all you can do not to whine _You're not my real C.O.!_ and burst out laughing. Not that anything about this situation is funny. It's just a response to too much adrenaline. The thought of having _anyone_ poking around in your head scares the living shit out of you, and you doubt Shatter will have a delicate touch.

"Your head is full of sensitive information, Captor! How can you even contemplate this?"

"I'll know what he digs up. The Orphaner did it to me once, and I knew precisely what he got. It's in Shatter's best interest to stay out of the locked files."

"His Highness charged me with your safety, and that includes your mental as well as your physical well-being. What if there are contingency spells that would trigger on any mind-to-mind contact? I will not disobey him. Nor should you. You know how devastated he would be if he lost you!"

" _I'm not his fucking concubine!_ " you roar. "There is more at stake than my safety or your orders or his feelings!" Anvil opens his mouth to cut you off, but you shout over him. "Yes, I _know_ losing me would wreck him, but if we don't catch a whiff of what Titan's cooking before the pot boils over, the whole _world_ might be fucked! Risking my life to get information is _what I do!_ "

They're both staring at you as you slump back, panting. You half expect Anvil to tell you to calm down, or Shatter to laugh at you for flipping out, but their faces are serious.

Anvil says slowly, carefully, "Death or madness are not the worst that could happen. There are spells which leap from one mind to another. You could become a carrier for an attack meant for the Prince."

"Warn him when you report," you snap. "He's going to be in mental contact with Shatter anyway when he does the Taking, right? As long as he knows I might be infected, the risk is the same." You look to Shatter. "I assume you need the shackles off."

Shatter's jeweled eyes are bugging like a frog's. "You're _fucking_ the _Prince_?" he squawks. "It's gonna be _my_ brain getting infapted!"

That's your limit; you give in to helpless laughter. When it finally passes, you feel wrung out. Centered and ready. It might be courage, or just gallows euphoria. You've never been good at telling the difference.

Anvil flanks Shatter while the guard takes off the manacles. He's prepared to come down on him at the first sign of shenanigans. Since the first sign will probably be you dropping dead, it's not as reassuring as it could be. You wait until the guard has gone out and re-locked the door, then wheel your chair over beside Shatter's. "Whenever you're ready."

"Wait," Anvil says. "Captor, if this goes awry… is there anything you'd like me to tell His Highness?"

You want to believe he means intel. He should be asking if everything you've figured out is in your notes already. But he's not asking that. Not with that look on his face. He wants you to leave behind the verbal equivalent of a lock of hair in a heart-shaped goddamn locket and you are _not going to fucking do it_. What you feel for the Prince is tangled and fierce, just the first raw shoot of a vine that could grow to be medicine or poison or both; you couldn't put it into words if you had all the time in the world. Even if you could, you wouldn't. It would only make your death/madness/whatever that much harder to get over. If you'd ever sent him any love letters, you'd ask Anvil to burn them.

"Tell him to kick Titan's ass," you say.

You turn to Shatter with a demanding lift of your chin. Shatter spreads his thin, cold hand over your eyes, and the world goes white.


	30. The Beacon

The city is burning. It's always been burning, somewhere in the back of your mind, even though you didn't see it happen. Maybe _because_ you didn't see it happen.

"I like the venue," the Titan says. "This works for me."

"It would," you say wearily. You're not surprised to see him, the way things don't surprise you in dreams, the way you're not surprised to see your hometown on fire and the streets strewn with the dead, though the last time you saw it was on a wet winter day with camellia flowers glowing through the drizzle.

He's trying to look like the Prince. He's got the Prince's clothes on, his hair all bed-tousled, skin clerk-pale and no tattoos showing where his shirt collar is open. You can't believe you ever thought he might get that past you. His expression is a dead giveaway. The face that stops your breath when it's the Prince's turns your stomach when it's the Titan's. The twist of his smile. The flat, animal shallowness of his eyes. It's revolting.

He steps over half a shopkeeper and reaches for you. You're not there; his hand closes on air. He looks surprised for half a moment to see you suddenly as far from him as you were before, but covers it with the smarmiest sulk you've ever seen.

"C'mon, baby, don't be like that."

"You're doing the voice wrong," you point out. "Failing to impersonate your actual twin brother is just sad, man."

He throws his head back and laughs.

"Oh, fuck off," you grumble. "You don't even belong in this dream."

Then he's behind you, twisting your arm up behind your back, forearm across your throat. As you go rigid, he croons into your ear: "But I'm the one who burned the place, Twiggy. You forgot the best part. You forgot the _music_."

Noise hits you like a mudslide. The roar of the flames; cracking wood and falling stone; screaming; voices that are not screaming, not yet, but calling to each other, calling for help -- calling out promises of help they can't possibly provide, and those are the worst somehow. Those grace notes of doomed decency, and Titan making a happy little hum like he's hearing violins.

"Get your fucking hands off me, you psychotic shitshow," you snarl.

"No lisp? I liked the lisp."

You try to be elsewhere. Nothing happens.

"No, see, how it works is, _I_ come to _you_ ," he says. "And I take back the retard and the mime, and gut whoever's hiding you. Where are you hiding, Chief?"

"Your dad's asshole. You can have a turn when I'm done."

"Rhetorical question," he sneers, and shoves you from him so you stumble. "I'm tracing your location now, and there's nothing you can do about it. Go on, try to wake up."

You can't, of course. You're not sure you could even if he weren't fucking with your dream. "Okay," you say with fairly convincing casualness. "The Prince will kick your ass again. I'll get to watch this time. It'll be cool."

"Is that what you think happened? Oh, Twiggy, Twiggy." He shakes his head pityingly. "I stalled him for a while and then left, and he thinks he won. He thinks it's possible for him to _ever_ win. I'm going to kill him, you know. It won't even be hard. I have power he can't begin to imagine."

"Oh my _god_ ," you drawl. "You are so _boring_."

"Quit lying," he grins. He gestures, and you're suddenly naked. Twists his hand, and you hit your knees. "I've got a better use for your mouth."

You want to tell him that's the cheapest line ever, but whatever puppet fuckery he's doing to you won't let you shut your mouth. You feel a line of drool drip from your lower lip as he slinks closer. The dumbest thing about this whole business is that he thinks he's sexy.

He undoes the first button of his bulging fly. You try again to wake up, to take control of the dream, do _anything_ , but you can't find anything to grasp. You weren't trained for this. You taste bile. You hope you puke on his dick. He undoes another button.

He glances past you, startled, and then he flies backwards, folding around an invisible fist.

The compulsion breaks. You fall forward, catch yourself on your hands, retching. Cloth settles over you: the tattered coat of Aradia's uniform. The storm of noise dies away to a soft wind. The flames turn to camellia blossoms and fall in drifts, leaving the buildings whole again, the streets cleaned of their carnage. Rain begins to patter down.

"Why don't you remember it like this, Sollux?" she says.

"Dreams are speculation, not memory," you point out. You add fondly, "There were never _that_ many flowers."

"I like them."

"I know."

The Titan has rallied by now. Watching him stalk toward her is almost funny. You can see him weighing his options: flirt, threaten, or mindgame? His eyes flick to you, and you'd bet good money he's wondering if he can get to her by threatening you or vice-versa.

"It won't work," you tell him. You can feel a triumphant grin spreading across your face. "None of your bullshit will work on her. It wouldn't have worked even when she was alive."

He headtilts at her, eyes narrowing. "Are you a subconscious defense mechanism or a ghost?" For just that one second, while he's seriously considering a theoretical question, he actually looks like the Prince, and it hurts to see. But then he loses interest and he's back to his foul, smug self: "Neither one's a match for me. I'll take you _apart_ , Doll. But first -- should I fuck you myself, or make your brother do it?"

Aradia flicks her fingers, and he goes flying again.

You can _feel_ his patience snap. It sends a tremor through your dream. Colors blur and the sky shivers. He lands on his feet, then rises to hover ten feet off the ground, spreadeagled, fingers splayed. His eyes glow with blackness. That brutal greed you sensed from him when you first met him is pouring off him now, rolling over you like a filthy storm surge. A great organ chord of narcissism -- an unholy certainty that the whole world is his to break.

You're lost in it for a long, hideous moment. It doesn't even recognize you as real, and it's so strong you almost believe it. Then Aradia steps in front of you, and you remember yourself.

"You're not getting anything you want today," you tell him.

"I'm going to hollow you out and fill you with demons," he growls. " _Nobody_ says no to me."

"Yeah, well, guess what." Your voice hardly shakes at all.

He lets out a _HA_ , not a laugh so much as a gutteral sound of force, and it knocks your city flat. The wind of it blasts past you, but Aradia puts her head down and leans into it, and it doesn't blow you away. The sky blackens; he raises a hand; lightning strobes down, gathering around his fingers like candyfloss.

Everything lurches sideways.

You slam awake with a howl, curling around a searing pain in your left arm.

For the first couple of seconds, you think Titan's lightning hit you. Then Shatter shrieks, and everything comes into focus. You're on the floor at Shatter's feet. Anvil is just drawing back after giving Shatter a mirrored cut with one of your black knives.

Hot wetness is running between your fingers where you clutch your arm. Your glasses are crooked, you've lost a shoe, your muscles are sore -- were you convulsing or something? Shatter's yowling trails off into jumbled obscenities. You want to yell at Anvil for cutting you so deep, and also to thank him for thinking to stab you at all, but once you have the breath to talk you realize you have something more important to say.

"The Titan," you gasp. "Said he's tracing us. He's coming."

Anvil pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. "It was a beacon spell. Brilliant. Then I guess we'd better leave," he sighs. "Now do you see what a terrible idea that was?"

"That depends." You lurch upright, drop into your chair with a grunt. You hold out your hand for your knife. Anvil releases it, then produces a roll of bandage and helps you deal with your arm. When you're done gritting your teeth, you say, "Shatter?"

He looks up. His eyes are wet. Not from pain; he didn't cry when you stabbed him a lot deeper with the same knife, and his cut's already closing. You guess Titan was messing with his head too. "Hey," he says unsteadily.

"Did you get what you needed, or do we have to do it again?"

" _Again_?" Anvil says disbelievingly. "Are you _insane_?"

"That bolt's shot, right? And if there's another loaded, better to take the hit before we move."

Shatter gives a low whistle. "You are one mastocistic mothertucker. No. I'm in. We're good. "

"Oh thank fuck," you blurt. Shatter laughs weakly. Anvil gives an exasperated growl and strides to the door, presumably to start the process of evacuating. "Wait," you say.

"What _now_?" He's had it with your shit, and it almost makes you laugh.

"Is there any way we can use this to lay a false trail?"

He pauses. Slowly takes his hand off the latch. "What do you have in mind?"

"Well, this is the first time we know what the Titan wants before he gets it. It'd be a shame to waste it."

"He spoke to you? What exactly did he say?"

You shake your head slightly; not refusal, just frustration with your own memory. It's fading like dreams do, and you can only hold onto the general shape of it. "That he's tracing our location. That he's going to take me and Shatter and Hush, and kill everyone else. A lot of bluster, I don't know. Either he was really confident I couldn't get out of the dream to warn anyone, or a warning won't help. Hell, maybe he's lying about the trace -- trying to spook us into running, hoping we'll give ourselves away."

Anvil goes to perch on the edge of the desk, giving up on hurrying. "I'm not familiar with the beacon he used. I didn't get a good look at it. I'm hiding us from general scrying, and blocking his master link with his Taken, so it operated on a level different from those. All I know is it's not still active. It was like a signal flare; it went up and burned out."

"And if he needed time to trace us, that means it's like… like a signal flare over a forest, right? You know about which direction it came from, but you still have to search the ground."

"Precisely. We also don't know how long it will take him to travel here, since we don't know where he started from."

Shatter puts in, "Six hours, at least." He twitches when you both turn to look at him, but holds his head up. "Pronibly more like twelge? Cuz I bet he's up east."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because…" He trails off, eyes wandering, posture softening. You can watch the distraction coming over him now that you know what to look for. Annoying in the short term, but you like what it suggests about how much of the Titan's plan Shatter knows.

"Hey." You snap your fingers a couple times. His eyes jerk back to you. "Okay, we have a little time, let's use it. It's your call how, Anvil. You know what's possible. But this is a beautiful opportunity to get _him_ running in circles for once. Maybe we can give the Prince a breather."

After a moment's thought, Anvil nods. "I don't suppose he said why he wants you."

"Nah." You can't assume he just wants to break his brother's toys. He has a strategy. "Hostage, probably. Or else he wants some code broken," you add with a dry chuckle.

"Maybe," Shatter says slowly, "he wants to make the Prince chase you." He's speaking so carefully that at first you think he's fighting his speech impediment for dignity's sake. "Maybe, if he had you, the Prince would have to investigate any clue as to your whereabouts. No matter how tenuous."

Then you get it. It's not just his tangled tongue he's battling. It's the distraction spell. He can't divulge what he knows, but he can _speculate_ based on it. He's telling you why Titan had you kidnapped. You'd assumed he didn't know about the spell -- that it would be hidden from him by its very nature -- but goofy as he is, he's a wizard strong enough to be worth Taking. It shouldn't surprise you that he's noticed it.

He's taking the initiative to help. He's fully on side now.

"Shatter, I could kiss you," you beam.

"I'll fucking bite you," he says, alarmed.

You ignore that. "Anvil, I can work with Hush and Shatter on my own. I just need your notes on the cipher before we split up."

Anvil's eyes narrow. "You're thinking to use yourself as bait? That's idiotic. You can't outrun him. Nor can I allow you to risk yourself so foolishly, no matter how lightly you take my guardianship."

"No, I'm thinking you're not the only one who can hide us. Right? And I'm thinking since you know me best of anyone here, you're the one to lay Captor tracks all around the briar patch."

He raises an eyebrow. "And what is the 'briar patch' in your metaphor?"

You shrug, grinning. "Up to you, man. You're the dire war mage. I'm just a spook."

"And yet you persist in ordering me about." There's a quirk at the corner of his mouth.


	31. Cephalopropulsion

Anvil goes on, "Magics of concealment are my specialty, but Undine is certainly competent to the task in the short term. Very well, if she agrees, then we'll follow your plan. I must report to His Highness, of course; there is every possibility the Titan will use his general knowlege of our whereabouts to manipulate him, and it would be remiss of us to allow it." He looks to Shatter. "You must wear one cuff for the time being. To suppress your signature enough that Undine doesn't exhaust herself obscuring you. It… need not be locked."

Shatter looks absolutely floored. He really didn't expect a gesture like that from Anvil. His thanks are so scrambled they don't even sound like words.

Anvil sighs, standing. "And now we must present all this to Undine, who hates abrupt changes of plan, and to Hush, whom we are not certain will share Shatter's opinion."

"He will," Shatter says fiercely.

"We shall see."

Shatter holds up his wrists, puffy and blistered but unchained. "He will," he repeats.

 

* * *

 

Shatter is right. When he sees Shatter without manacles, Hush's imperially rigid posture softens and hope lights his eyes. Shatter signs, **I want to hurt the boss and so do they. Are you with me?**

**Always** , Hush signs back, and holds his wrists out to the guard with the key.

 

* * *

 

Undine is a little harder to convince. She doesn't like the idea of leaving her city when the Titan is heading straight for it. She wants to evacuate the non-merfolk first; those who can't breathe underwater can't just scatter if the Titan chooses to vent his frustration on their homes. Anvil argues against -- he says there isn't time -- until you ask if some of the merfolk could also carry bait. They both go thoughtful. Then Anvil concedes that Undine's personal guard could buy the evacuees a few hours without too much risk to themselves.

Which is how you end up handing out your clothes, your bedding, and a haircut's worth of thread-bound locks like party favors to a whole garrison of armored mermaids.

The clothing Undine gives you to replace your old set is certainly in better repair, but you're still going to miss wearing the Prince's uniform. Which you're well aware is dumb as hell, considering how you felt about putting it on in the first place. But to a spy, any uniform is a disguise, isn't it?

You haven't even asked how Undine plans to get you to the surface. You hope she doesn't plan to drag you along underwater like Echo and Anvil did. You steal the oilcloth left over from your water-ball treatments to wrap your writing box in, just in case.

It seems to take forever for everyone to get ready, and you're fighting exhaustion by sheer willpower when Anvil tells you it's go time, but he assures you it's only been an hour. He pushes your chair through halls bustling with servants and soldiers on urgent errands. They give you a wide enough berth that Anvil seldom has to slow his long stride.

"When you're done leading the Titan around," you say tentatively, "are you going to join us?"

Maybe he picks up on what you really meant to say, because he gives your shoulder a squeeze. "I'll keep the Titan running as long as I can. It depends on how far he's prepared to chase me. I'll rendezvous with your group once he breaks off pursuit."

Meaning: We will see each other again. We _are_ friends. You didn't just imagine it.

"Good hunting," you grin. "I'll try and stay out of trouble until then."

He wheels you through a vast warehouse to a door so big it takes machinery to open it; it's standing open now, and you can see some of the mechanism. Beyond is the biggest bubble you've seen yet, the size of a city's public square and half full of water. It looks like a kind of marina: a maze of floating docks with boats and small ships moored at them. Because parking boats underwater makes complete sense and is not even a little bit insane.

Humans and merfolk alike are rushing around loading the vessels for evacuation. You think of all the refugees you've seen over the course of the war, and wince. _You_ brought this down on them.

You're not going to drown in guilt over it. If neither of the mages in the room foresaw a beacon spell that could penetrate Anvil's perimeter, you could hardly have been expected to. Titan's the culprit; you were only the trigger. But it's still sobering when one misstep has such broad consequences.

When you see which ship you're headed for, you think, _Of course. Of course it'd be the cute one._

It's a slim, single-masted thing with furled conch-pink sails and an octopus painted on the prow, all gleaming brass and buttery wood and spotless white paint. It wants to be mistaken for a pleasure yacht, but there are grapnel guns like great steel crossbows mounted amidships, and the graceful, gilded extension of the bowsprit is a ramming spike. It's a pirate hunter, is what it is. A pirate hunter dressed up like a debutante at a garden party. Its name is scrolled among the octopus's tentacles in wine and gold: _Raydiant_.

The fearsome sea-witch, the Prince's right hand, the victor of more naval battles than you can name, gave her pretty little sloop a punny name like an idle countess on holiday.

Of _course_ she did.

Anvil helps you out of your wheelchair and lifts you from dock to deck. The chair's not coming with you. You guess it'd be a liability on shipboard. You can walk short distances, anyway. You wrap your hand around a sail line to steady yourself -- you know enough about boats to know you're supposed to call ropes 'lines', but not enough to describe which one you're holding onto -- and look around for your hostess, wondering if you're supposed to wait or call out or what. Fortunately, before you can make a fool of yourself by shouting something stupid like 'ahoy', Undine emerges from the low cabin and sees you.

"Well, get below," she says impatiently. "Keep an eye on those two and shout if they make trouble. And for heaven's sake, don't make a fuss when we move out; I've got everything under control, and I can't fathom why everyone seems to forget that at the first wave of a tentacle."

Tentacle? "Heh, fathom."

"Tch." She rolls her eyes, but not unkindly. "Scoot." She turns to talk to Anvil, all business; you're dismissed.

You salute Anvil and get a nod in reply. Then, steadying yourself on the smooth wood of the cabin's roof -- waist-high to you here on the deck -- you wobble your way aft and down the companionway.

You find yourself in the most luxurious room you've ever seen, even more decadent than the Prince's bedchamber. Rugs and cushions pave the floor, tasselled silk throws drape low couches with brocade upholstery and intricately carved woodwork. The ceiling is high enough for even you to stand comfortably, though you have to weave between hanging lamps of colored glass. They're burning scented oil, for crying out loud.

Frankly, the place sort of resembles a bordello, aside from the bit where just one of these pillows would cost you a year's pay. But something about the color scheme of soft blues and greens and purples, the embroidery of curling waves and flying fish, the subtle spicy scent of the lamp oil, makes it all innocent. More restful than debauched.

Hush and shatter have already succumbed to its charms. They've made a nest of cushions and are snuggled up together in it, a satin quilt around both their shoulders, and are signing to each other. You can only see part of the conversation, but it looks like Shatter's bringing Hush up to speed on the situation.

If you get cozy you'll probably nod off. You trust Shatter's motives, so you're pretty sure nothing bad would happen if you did, but ignoring Undine's orders on her own ship would be unwise. So you pick the least cushy of the couches, a sort of one-ended affair that looks designed for sitting up reading, and arrange yourself so you can see out a porthole as well as watch the ex-prisoners.

They're making you a little uncomfortable, to tell the truth. In your world, people don't snuggle like that unless they're fucking, or wish they were. These two are clearly not lovers, and yet they have no boundaries with each other whatsoever. Maybe they act a little bit like a parent with a small child, if you consider both of them to be both parent and child. It's frankly a bit creepy.

Then again, what use do Taken have for social norms? They have no one but each other. Even without the world of shit the Titan's put them through, they'd be craving a little comfort. If they want to snuggle and pet their best friend like a dog, who's going to stop them?

It crosses your mind to wonder whether the Prince has ever had anyone to hold him before, and you have to smash down a sudden upwelling of loneliness. It gets harder every time.

You hear the anchor chain rattle. Outside the porthole, the dock begins to slide past.

Elsewhere in the marina, you can see other vessels moving out. When they move through the wall of the bubble -- towed by merfolk, because of course there's no breeze in here -- a silvery film of air clings around their decks. Once they're outside, they unfurl their sails, which fill with the current as if with wind. Whoever's maintaining that must also be doing something to keep the ships submerged and upright, because they sail away instead of rocketing to the surface or rolling on their sides and becoming underwater weathervanes.

Undine's ship joins them soon enough. Your ears pop as its smaller bubble detaches from the big one. You wait for the sails to open, anticipating a jolt, but it doesn't happen. The other ships are leaving you behind.

Something slides past your porthole. Something green-black and as thick as your thigh. You blink, thinking maybe you misconstrued a bundle of kelp -- and then another object slips into view, same as the first but much thicker, as big around as a barrel. It's like a tree trunk studded with dinner plates. And each dinner plate has a beak like a parrot; you can see them denting the air bubble.

Ah. So that's what Undine meant.

Shatter looks away from Hush for a moment, and lets out a shriek.

"Don't flip out," you tell him. "Undine said not to make a fuss about the tentacles. I guess it annoys her."

"Tenkables?" he squeaks.

"I dunno, man. All I know is Undine's got it under control. Maybe she summoned something to carry us." You try to peer out the porthole for a point of reference to judge your motion by, but the tentacle's pretty much blocking it.

Hush aims his pointed chin at the great bone hooks threatening to pop your air supply, and signs, **Are you fucking serious?**

"He drubn't know sign," Shatter says quickly.

You were about to come clean about that, but you hesitate. He's apparently familiar with your information-gathering methods, so he must suspect. But if he can convince Hush you don't understand -- and maybe keep plausible deniability for himself -- then they can discuss the Titan's plans in front of you and maybe the distraction spell won't kick in. Good thinking.

So you grin and awkwardly mimic one of the signs: "I know that one, that's 'fucking'. Right?"

Hush rolls his eyes.

"Speaking of fucking," Shatter says. "You and the Primps? Really?"

You shrug. "It's a thing."

Hush signs, **Did you have a choice?**

You wait for Shatter to translate before replying. "It was my idea, dude. I _told_ you he's not like the Titan. He got really awkward when I flirted with him at first. Like, 'I would never go layin' hands on a prisoner, Sol, that'd be fuckin' unconscionable!'" Mimicking the Prince's accent makes you homesick for that little room on the Storm Palace, because you are an idiot. "And I'm not a prisoner anymore, so it's not as weird as it could be."

Shatter snorts. "So you seduped him. Congraptulations. And you're _so sure_ he never put a whammy on you."

"I didn't _seduce_ him, Shatter, I just --" You shake your head, not sure how to put it. "I think 'seduce' implies headgames. I just _like_ him. I thought he was hot, and I went for it, and he was into it, that's all. Just like normal people."

The phrase 'normal people' cracks Shatter up. Even Hush gives a little chuckle through his nose. You have to admit it's ironic. Those words don't apply to anyone you've dealt with in a really long time.


	32. Walls

You hear the pat of bare feet on the companionway. Undine leans in without coming all the way down. The swing of her hair and the way she purses her lips to hide a smile remind you so much of Aradia. It's more comforting than painful, which you wouldn't have expected.

She says, "I heard that scream. Didn't I tell you not to make a fuss?"

"I forgot to warn them, sorry."

She rolls her eyes. "You're on probation, mister. You'd better be a model guest from now on."

You have a feeling she's talking more about setting off the beacon than about letting Shatter squeal. You give her your best apologetic smile. "Quiet as mice, I promise."

"Good, because we have a three-day journey ahead of us, and I need to be concentrating on hiding us. The galley and sleeping cabins are below, the head is through there, stay off the deck until we surface. Sollux, don't push yourself, because if you relapse again I don't have time to treat you. Hush, Shatter, if you unlatch those cuffs for so much as a moment I will gut you. Be good!" She dimples sweetly at you all, and it carries the force of the direst of threats. Then she's gone. The companionway hatch shuts with a final sort of thump.

There's a long silence. Then Shatter says, "I'm tanking a nap." He burrows against Hush's side. Hush's arm folds him in automatically, tucking the quilt around him.

"Hush, do you want something to write on so you can talk to me without him translating?" you offer.

Hush shakes his head. He makes the universal gesture for 'sleep', hands together and cheek leaning on them, and then tugs the corner of the quilt over his face.

You know you ought to get some sleep while you can. Three days of sybaritic comfort are nothing to sneeze at, especially under these circumstances. But between the bizarre mode of transportation, the presence of two new and tentative allies you don't fully trust yet, and the way Undine's sea-beast's tentacle hooks are on the verge of piercing that air bubble, you can't relax. You try, you really do. You pile a couple pillows behind you and wrap yourself in a shawl knitted from the softest stuff you've ever touched, close your eyes, focus on your breathing. Fatigue drags at you like an anchor. But you can't quite let go of wariness.

So after half an hour or so you give up on it and get out your writing box. You lose yourself in the simple, mechanical process of plugging away at the cipher.

The ship creaks from time to time as the tentacles shift their grip. Shatter begins snoring, a wheezy soft rasp that for some reason reminds you of a child's wooden cart rolling on a wooden floor. Your pen scratches, your paper crinkles. Letters march over the page in neat ranks of five, an endless army crossing a snowy plain.

You don't even notice when you slip into dreaming. Your forces, which are simultaneously and without contradiction soldiers and ciphertext, besiege a fortress where the Prince is being held prisoner. He doesn't even know he's a captive; he grumbles at you to stop making so much noise, he's trying to do paperwork. You're outside commanding your inky army and inside sighing at his scolding at the same time.

"I'll come fight with you when I'm done here," he grumbles, not lifting his eyes from his work. He's filling an accounts ledger with purple ink. You know, somehow, that the ink is his blood, that he's unknowingly bleeding himself to death. When you try to warn him, he doesn't hear you.

"You weren't going to abuse official channels for personal communication, remember?" says the Orphaner. He's suddenly been standing behind this son the whole time, one hand resting on the Prince's shoulder.

"Don't you care that it's killing him?" you demand.

He laughs, "He was never alive, boy. I made him out of a wisteria tree. I buried a little golden statue among the roots and it came to life."

"No, that's not right. It's just the right color."

"Anyone can do paperwork," the Orphaner says. "So I'm turning him back into flowers. You can have them if you want, I don't care."

The Prince finally looks up. He smiles at you, and tries to speak, but petals come out of his mouth instead of words. When you go over the desk at him, the desk expands endlessly until you're running full-tilt across a vast plain of varnished oak. Drifts of loose paper make it slippery and you keep falling, but you're too stubborn and angry to quit. It's harder to get up every time. The drifts of paper keep getting deeper. Soon you're slogging shin-deep, climbing out of them on hands and knees, bleeding from a thousand paper cuts, you've lost sight of the Prince but you know that somewhere beyond this bureaucratic blizzard he's diminishing, bleeding ink and vomiting flowers, and if you don't get to him soon there'll be nothing left.

There's a drawn-out creaking noise and a thump like the sounding of a vast drum. The walls of paper part before you, sliced cleanly right down to the wooden plain and shoved aside with unfathomable force. Aradia stands beyond the cut. She holds out a hand.

"Well? Are you coming?"

You run to her. The moment your fingers lace with hers, your mind clears. You realize that the world of paper and wood makes no sense, that the Prince's blood-and-flowers plight is metaphorical.

"I still want to see him," you tell her, a little sheepishly, as you start walking hand-in-hand along the canyon between paper walls.

"I know. And you will! Even though there are consequences. I'll warn you about the consequences and you'll decide to do it anyway. That's how it happens."

You laugh and bump your shoulder against hers. "Quit being so smug."

"Mm… nope!" She smiles that creepy, wide-eyed smile you love so much. "I have a lot to be smug about. Do you want to hear my warning or not?"

"Nah, I think I've decided to blunder along on blind faith and emotion from now on. I want to try that blissful ignorance everyone keeps talking about."

Aradia rolls her eyes.

"Of _course_ I want to hear the consequences. Shit's complicated enough as it is. If I have all the information before I act, maybe I can get through this without fucking up."

"Good luck with that," she grins.

"Come on, you're the one who was always telling me not to be so negative. I'm expressing optimism here."

"It _was_ super annoying when you'd get doomy and shoot down all my suggestions. But optimism doesn't mean thinking you can avoid making mistakes, Sollux."

"If I make another fuckup like the last one…"

"That wasn't your fault, though."

"I know. I'm not beating myself up about it."

"You totally are, but okay. The consequences of visiting the Prince in his dreams are… _twofold_."

Now it's your turn to roll your eyes. "I thought we were done with the 'twofold' jokes." You thought that word was _so cool_ when you were a kid, and she's never let you live it down.

"The first consequence is that he'll find out about me."

"Is there a problem with that?"

"There might be, or it might turn out to be a good thing! It depends on a lot of choices both of you have to make. I don't know everything, especially when it involves complicated people making difficult decisions. Time magic has limitations, even when you're a ghost!"

"Can you at least give me a hint about how to make the good choices?"

"Hmm… maybe? I think you should remember that I'm dead."

You wait, but she doesn't go on. "That's it?" you grumble. "That's your hint?"

"Yes. Second --"

"Aradia --"

"Shush. The second consequence is…" She makes her 'I am a scary oracle wooooo' face. " _You'll_ find out about _him_."

"Uh. I'll find out _what_ about him?"

"I don't know! I'm very curious to know that myself, so I'm glad you're going to decide to go through with this."

"Well, now I kind of want to say I won't, just to be a dick."

She laughs. She waits. You sigh.

"No, you're right. Let's do this."

She stops walking and tightens her grip on your hand. Her smile fades as she searches your eyes. "Are you really sure, Sollux? The future can be changed. I'm not always right."

"But you know me. You know I'll never turn down information."

"No matter what the price?"

"That's a nonsense question. Look -- tell me this much -- is there a chance that doing this will help us win?"

"Definitely."

"All right then." You tug her hand, and she falls into stride with you again.

The wood beneath you grows scuffed and weathered as you travel on. The paper hills slump, yellowing, grow foxed edges and mildew streaks, begin to compost into unreadable grayish lumps. The light changes gradually from the warm gold of library lamps to a stormy gray, and then to the deep blue of a winter afternoon, bringing with it the melancholy of a too-short day ending before it's properly begun.

Sorrow closes over you. Futility and regret. It presses on your skin, clogs your lungs. Makes you think of all the times you've found yourself so far from the moral high ground that guilt felt like vanity. Times when you've written words you knew would send hundreds, thousands to their deaths, felt the weight of their suffering touch your shoulders and shrugged it aside because carrying it would do no one any good. Times when you've lied and pretended, broken trust and hearts and hope, for purposes those you hurt will never even know about. You're choking on the hell of war: not what you've seen, but what you've chosen, deliberately, eyes open, to become.

"Sollux." Aradia squeezes your hand hard, bringing you back to yourself enough to gasp a hoarse breath, as if you've been drowning. Then she lets go. "You're on your own from here."

You raise your head. The wooden ground has narrowed to a road-wide strip somehow suspended above a dark and seething distance. Something roils in the blue below -- clouds? Water? Ink? The limbs of vast and restless sleepers? Above, the indigo clouds spit sparse pellets of snow that sting when they hit. Before you, the way narrows further. Soon there'll be no room to walk side by side.

"Is this really where I'll find him?"

"I'm afraid so," your sister says. She kisses your cheek, and then she's gone.

You square your shoulders. Resolve not to let the atmosphere of desolation distract you again. It's not like you've never been depressed. It's not like you've never had to function in a trough before. And if these are the Prince's feelings you're echoing -- like _hell_ you're going to leave him alone in here.

The snow stings harder the farther you go. The wooden road becomes a path, then a beam, and then a thread no thicker than a splinter. You force it to bear your weight by willpower alone. The writhing shapes below get clearer until you can see the slick gleam of amphibian skin, threadlike limbs grasping and slipping, gut-churning vastness of toothless, tongueless mouths. They swallow each other and are swallowed in turn; a ceaseless ouroboros dance of pointless predation. You don't know what they are, and you have a feeling you're better off not finding out.

There's a tower in the distance, like a wire standing up in a bucket of leeches. You're dreaming clearly now; you see no point wasting time marching miles that are symbolic anyway. So you stretch your legs and take the space in three strides.

The tower is built of poorly fitted, awkwardly shaped blocks, and there are bones mixed in with the mortar. The top is a roofless, snow-swept platform. The Prince hunches in the middle of it, as small in comparison as a nutshell in a drill yard. He's maintaining a four-inch-high wall around himself out of pebbles and teeth and clumps of ice. The wind is constantly crumbling it, and he's frantically repairing it with chapped and shaking hands.

"Wow, your nightmares _suck_ ," you say as you step over the little wall.

His head jerks up. His mouth falls open. His face is frostbitten, crusted with frozen brine, and his lips are cracked to ruin. He looks more afraid of you than glad to see you. "What the _fuck_ are you doin' here, Sol?" he demands.

"My sister brought me. Well, most of the way. I had to walk the last bit myself, and can I just say, while your epic sense of scale has artistic merit, it's inconvenient as shit in terms of accessibility --" You break off with a breathless huff as he launches himself at you and clings desperately. You hug back just as hard. "God, you're _freezing_. Dream yourself a sweater or something."

He muffles a sob against your shoulder. "You don't belong here," he laughs brokenly. "You shouldn't a come here."

"So?"

"I'm so fuckin' glad you did."

"Me too," you say softly. Because the moment you put your arms around him, the wind died. The terrible serpent-slug-catfish things still endlessly eat each other, the sky is still the color of wasted chances, but the Prince's doll-sized fortification is now a high castle wall, and the snow is falling soft as feathers.


	33. Pick Your Battles

"What's so funny?" he pouts.

You hadn't realized you'd laughed. "I'm a sentimental dumbass."

"You're the least sentimental person I know who ain't a actual psycho, Sol."

"I'm sure there's all kinds of shit we should be talking about, we should strategize, we should… we should coordinate. But I just want to do this." You nuzzle into the hair above his ear to illustrate what you mean you want to do: hold him, fill your senses with him.

Touching in a dream is strange, more like a vivid fantasy than actual sensation, but weighted with intense significance. This embrace is every embrace. Your arms around his shivering shoulders are the stone wall he built against the howling wind. His solid body against your chest is every rock you've ever clung to in those nightmares where the press of battle became a heaving sea, where storm-driven waves of entrails and arrowheads tried to drag you under. You're afraid if you let go you'll lose him.

He's the one who eventually backs off. He loosens his arms and steps away, hands sliding down your arms until you clutch his wrists to keep him from vanishing completely. He gives you a wry smile. You make yourself release him. He keeps one of your hands, laces your fingers together, tugs you toward a window seat.

His shelter is a proper room now, with furniture and rugs and a sluggishly smoldering hearth, though snow still swirls through gaps in the roof. You sit together on a velvet cushion, still madder-red at the seams but otherwise faded to beige, which puffs dust as you settle on it. This sharpness of detail is a surprising contrast to everything before, and you wonder if he's remembering a real object, a real room, maybe the room he's sleeping in right now.

"Why are you dreaming yourself a prisoner, Prince?" you ask softly.

"Look." He nods toward the window.

The greenish, bubbled glass is another instance of startling realism. The way the sparse snow accumulates on the sill, spiky flakes loosely clumped, sluggishly melting in the quarter-inch closest to the glass -- but he can't be asleep in a room where snow falls, can he? It's summer, even in the mountains. Aradia used to talk about how when it's summer here it's winter on the other side of the world, but even the Orphaner's empire doesn't stretch that far…

" _Look_."

Not the glass and the sill and the snow. The distance beyond. Unchanging indigo twilight and mindless devouring.

"What are they?"

"The source of his power."

You look back to him, expecting fear or disgust, but find only resignation. "This isn't a nightmare," you realize.

"No."

"This is just… where you live. In your head. This is why Anvil puked after he contacted you."

He grimaces. "It ain't usually that bad. Titan was watchin' me so I had to pull Anvil in deep to keep the line secure."

"And this --" You rap the window with your knuckles. "This is what you built yourself. To keep the Orphaner's creepy shit out. This is the part that's _you_."

He rolls his eyes. "Thanks for analyzin' my dream, Sol, I had no fuckin' clue."

You shake your head, clutching his hand tighter. "Prince, when I showed up your wall was yea high and falling apart. What happened? What's been happening to you? Tell me it only looked like that from the outside." He won't meet your eyes, even when you put your hand to his cheek to make him face you. "Did Titan do that?"

"I'm just tired."

"That's his plan, isn't it? Wear you out so he can get at you."

"He --" He swallows. He looks ashamed. "He coulda got at me already if he wanted. He's just keepin' me outta the way, an' damn me if it ain't workin' even though I _know_ I'm playin' into his hands."

"Then why --"

" _They're my people!_ " He meets your eyes at last, and there's a glowing coal of anger beneath the despair. "Titan's playin' silly buggers, Dad's out conquerin' yet more territory we can't fuckin' hold, who's gonna _run the fuckin' Empire_ if I don't do it? I know you believe freedom trumps order, you quixotic Rebel ass, but the everyday jerks tryin' to put food on the table don't care who's in charge as long as they get paid on time! I have a _duty_!"

Your breath catches. His eyes narrow suspiciously at whatever he sees on your face.

"What," he demands.

"I thought I loved you already, but _this_ \--"

His lips twist. He gives a laugh that's half sob. "That's me, the hero of the treasury. My budgeting technique has the whole court swoonin'."

"Stop that." You thread your free hand into his hair, lean your forehead against his. You can't explain why his care for his subjects made your heart turn over; you don't really understand it yourself. But his self-deprecation just annoys you. "I of all people understand the power of paperwork. But you have to stop dancing to Titan's tune. Even if it means shirking."

"And how do I decide who I'm gonna let down, Sol? Throw darts at a map? 'Sorry, Lear Province, I know your barley's wiltin' in the field but I'm too busy to whistle up rain for you. Maybe you can water it with your tears.' You don't know the kinda scale Titan's wreckin' shit on."

"Prioritize. Delegate."

"You think I ain't already --"

"Pick your battles. Make your health and psychic defenses priority one, because you can't help _anyone_ if you work yourself into a coma."

"Stop talkin' like you know better than me, you asshole, it ain't like I don't --"

" _Trust_ us!" you plead. That shuts him up, and you don't have to shout over him to get the rest of it out. "I don't know how much Anvil's told you, but we're making progress. That beacon spell I accidentally triggered -- he reported that, right? -- well, it's a blessing in disguise, because while Titan's chasing Anvil, he's not harrassing you. And I haven't had to stop my work, Undine's ship is actually the perfect office for me. No distractions. Hush and Shatter are cooperating voluntarily now, we just have to get around some bullshit nondisclosure spell and I think Shatter's got a plan for that. I'm even getting somewhere on the cipher. We'll know what Titan's game is soon, so _trust_ us. You're not in this alone."

He takes a deep breath. Then another. The first shudders when he lets it out, but the second is steady. "Whatever I do, people are gonna die. I… didn't used to care so much about that."

You glance out the window at the hungry churning that is, apparently, Orphaner's power. You wonder how long it takes to build a fortress like this, even in dreams. It hurts to see the Prince so besieged. He's supposed to be one of the Great Powers, but when you arrived he was losing a battle he might have been fighting since before you were born, and it feels wrong that you should have so much power over whether he rallies or falls. It's been weeks since you gave any thought to whether you should be helping him at all, but the question taps you on the shoulder now -- if you keep putting your personal loyalties above your political ones, aren't you becoming a traitor in fact, not just appearance? Shouldn't you be influencing him for the Rebels' benefit? It's not like you have to hurt him to do it.

"Prioritize the core states, that'd be my advice," you say, and feel a little sick.

"Let the Rebels have their way with the western front, you mean," he drawls. "Nice to see you ain't succumbed to sentiment completely." He sounds annoyed, but not betrayed. That's a relief. It doesn't absolve you of your divided allegiance, but at least you're not fooling him.

"That's Titan's problem, isn't it? If he wants to keep up the appearance of doing his job, he has to quit fucking around and go deal with it."

"Hmm." He watches you with narrowed eyes for a few moments longer, then relaxes with a sigh. "It ain't a bad idea, for all I know why you're proposin' it. If I gotta hang somebody out to dry anyway, at least usin' 'em for Titan bait makes the sacrifice --"

Something hits your face, and the dream shatters.

Your half-conscious groping after the shreds of it are cut off by a slap to your other cheek. Your eyes snap open, but you can't see, there's something in the way, rippling veils, swishing hair, waterborne ink, smoke --

Black smoke. _It's coming out of your eyes_. You can taste it in your mouth, bitter cold, chemical. Terror twists your guts.

A third slap, and the smoke stops coming. You blink up through the fading wisps of it at Undine's furious face. She releases her fistful of your shirt and you fall back on the couch. "What the shell do you think you're doing, Sollux Captor?" she snaps.

"Uh." You scrub at your face. Work your mouth. Your throat hurts. Your hands are shaking. You feel exhausted on an axis you don't know how to plot. Emotionally abraded. Like you've been deep-throating a cannon brush with your _brain_. "I have legitimately no fucking idea," you say unsteadily.

She stands, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, and watches you push yourself to a sitting position. Your cipher notes are all over the place, pen-blotted and tumbled out of order, but at least the ink bottle was on the little table at your elbow instead of on your lap. You cap it, gather the papers and set them aside, struggle free of the shawl tangling your legs, put your feet on the floor. Rub your eyes until they don't itch quite so maddeningly. Try to kick your mind into gear.

Hush and Shatter are staring at you. Shatter looks a little alarmed. Hush just looks fascinated.

"Who were you contacting?" Undine demands.

"The Prince. I don't… know how that's possible, but…"

"Did you send to him, or him to you?"

"It was… a dream, I don't know how it worked, I'm not a wizard. Why are you so mad, did I fuck up your hidey magic?"

"As a matter of fact you did, but that's not the point. How do you know it wasn't the Titan? He could've left some kind of seed in you."

"Could he? God, that's disgusting. But no, it was the Prince."

"How do you _know_? You're a fool if you think the Titan couldn't pretend to be his brother for the space of one sending. You'd better not have given away our position!"

You open your mouth to protest that you've had the Titan in your head once already, and he was absolute shit at impersonating the Prince, but shut it again; he could've blown it on purpose to make you think his disguise is easy to spot. And you did mention Anvil laying false trail, and that you and Shatter and Hush are on Undine's ship. But… no. "No. If the Titan was going to play me, he wouldn't have done it like that. We wouldn't have had that particular conversation."

If Titan understood enough about duty to say the things the Prince said, if he understood being weak and conflicted and exhausted well enough to present it so genuinely, he wouldn't be a problem in the first place.

She huffs. "If you believe he couldn't play the doting lover --"

"But that's not what -- no, just. Believe me, this is logic, not emotion. Anyway, I think I _did_ … send?... to the Prince, not the other way around. It's pretty confusing because it started out as a regular dream, but I was worried about him and looking for him. And somehow I found him. If you can explain how that happened, I'd love to hear it."

Undine raises an eyebrow. She looks more exasperated than mad now. "You have latent magical ability, obviously. You shouldn't be so surprised. Your sister was a wizard, it runs in families."

"Oh." You remember now. Aradia. She showed you the way. You want to ask if the ghost of a dead mage can live in her brother's head and work magic through him, but you don't think you want Undine knowing about that. "Weird."

Shatter giggles. Undine throws him a quelling look, then turns it on you. She says, "Do not do it again, do you hear me? Concealment is _not_ my specialty, it's hard enough without you poking holes through my wards in your sleep. If you start worrying about him again, just… wake yourself up." She turns on her heel and stomps out, bare feet slapping hard on the steps.

"Sollups got in trou-ble," Shatter singsongs. "I bet you didn't even get laid."

"Shut up," you grumble. "Your head looks like a chicken."

With a childlike peal of laughter, he flops over and buries his face in Hush's armpit. Hush pats Shatter's unruly hair, his stitched lips curved in a benevolent smile.


	34. Scribe

Once the nausea wears off, you realize you're starving. Dangerously, stomach-crampingly, three-weeks-on-half-rations, light-headed-and-stupid ravenous. You get up slowly, bracing yourself with a hand on the ceiling, wait out the headrush and fainty-sparkles, then lurch your way toward the cabin's other exit.

"I'm getting something to eat, you guys want any?" Only after saying it do you realize including Hush in the offer might've been cruel. How does he even eat? Does he sip broth through a straw or what? "Um."

He gives the ceiling a long-suffering look. Shatter snickers at your expression. "It tapes more than starving to kill us, stupoop."

"Stupoop?" you say blandly. "See if I bring you anything now."

As you shuffle down the ladder, you hear him explaining earnestly to Hush that there's no poop deck on a sloop, and the poop deck isn't where you poop, you poop in the head, unless you are a poophead.

The galley is as cute as the rest of the ship, and as luxurious. The latched cabinets have glass doors. The little soapstone stove has decorative inlays. The pantry is well-stocked, and there's even a tiny ice chest, just big enough for a pint of cream and a few cuts of meat. You're so dull-witted from hunger that you gaze around foolishly for at least ten minutes, trying to spot something you know how to cook, before you notice the stack of boxed lunches at eye-level in the center cabinet. Oh, that makes sense; using the stove while your air supply is enclosed would probably be dumb.

You bring one up for Shatter too, and an extra cup for sharing the wine you found, even if he did call you 'stupoop' instead of asking nicely. From the way he tucks into it, he _appreciates_ food whether he needs it or not.

The lunches are the sort of coastal cuisine you're not especially fond of -- heavy on the rice and seaweed, smoked fish and pickles -- but hunger makes everything delicious. Only once you're down to a twee little cheese-and-fruit tart and something painfully spicy you think might be burdock root do you realize Hush and Shatter are signing to each other.

\-- **takes more than a little hidden ability** , Hush is saying. **What concern is it of ours, anyway?**

**I like him. He's nice.**

**It's his job to act nice. Tell me you didn't throw in with them just because their spy is friendly.**

**You know I didn't. Jerk.**

**I'm sorry.**

Shatter pats Hush's cheek forgivingly, then signs, **Maybe partly because the Prince's people even thought to start with being nice. Because that guy's never do.**

 **You can say it.** When Shatter hesitates, Hush goes on, **The Titan.** He uses the sign for 'giant', but you know what it means in context. **He's not here to guess we're talking about him. Now stop worrying about things that aren't our business.**

They both look at you. You raise your eyebrows. "Anything I should know?" you say.

Shatter says, "If you have manic, you can be Taken."

"Manic? Oh. Magic. Don't make that face, I'm not correcting you, I just didn't get it at first. Why would anyone Take me, though? So I've got a little dormant mojo, so what? It's not like I can _do_ anything with it."

"You wouldn't get any older."

"I -- oh." You shut your mouth with a snap as you realize what he's suggesting. After your trip to death's door on the Sepsis Express, you wouldn't be surprised if the Prince was fretting about your mortality. And now it turns out he can make you immortal; all he has to do is enslave your soul.

Cold sweat prickles the back of your neck at the thought of that icy, devouring power churning through you, swallowing your free will, connecting you irrevocably with its hideous source. For a moment, you think your lunch is going to come back up. You close your eyes, inhale slowly through your nose, force yourself to think through the panic. This is the Prince you're talking about. Whatever he's done in the past -- and you have no illusions about that, not after the way Undine said 'plan it better than I did' -- he's different now.

When you found him in the dream, so exhausted, so alone, he was using the last of his strength to shore up his wall against the evil outside. It might have overwhelmed his defenses in the past -- for all you know his wall-building is a recent development, and he used to wallow with those eyeless eaters like his brother does, it would explain the ruthless efficiency of some of his past military campaigns -- but he's not going to voluntarily let it in now.

"He won't do that." You open your eyes, and find Shatter's jeweled ones studying you as if he's never seen a specimen like you up close before. "He was going to let me walk away, back in Heyton. He said if I wanted to leave he'd let me. This doesn't change anything."

"Why didn't you?"

"I didn't want to."

And as you say it, you realize: it really is that simple.

All this time, you've been hanging on to the idea of rejoining the Rebels as if it might still be an option. But it isn't. It hasn't been for a while. You had the chance and you didn't take it; you made your decision then, you've just been childishly refusing to recognize it. Because you miss your friends and it hurts enough that you couldn't bring yourself to feel it all at once. Because you love the Prince so _fucking much_ , and if you hadn't had the excuse of subverting him, you might've realized it sooner.

 _I'm sorry, Karkat_ , you think. _I'm sorry, Hawkeye. I could say it's about how an Empire in his hands wouldn't be the Empire we're fighting against, but that's just a rationalization. I'm the same as all the other selfish tools who betrayed their principles for their lovers or friends or family: I found this one warm thing and I'm too weak to go back out in the cold._

"Wow, don't look so hapty about it," Shatter says in a concerned tone. "No need to jump for joy or angstything."

"What?" You lift your head and fix your expression. Deep breath. Then you narrow your eyes. "Angstything? You did that on purpose."

He looks mischeviously innocent. You can tell he's clowning to cheer you up, and while it doesn't work, you appreciate the thought.

"Enough about my personal life, you guys, we have work to do. I'm going to keep plugging on this cipher, and I want you to figure out how to deal with that --" You break off as Shatter holds up a hasty hand. Don't mention the nondisclosure spell out loud. Okay. "Right. Good. Aw, shit, my nib is a catastrophe. Are you done with your wine cup? Give it here."

Rinsing a clogged nib in wine is far from the weirdest thing you've ever done with a pen -- you spent almost a month once doing cryptoanalysis with boiled-down coffee and a sharpened reed in the margins of a stash of pornographic novels you found in the attic of a temporary safehouse -- but you wince at the thought of how corrosive wine is. Which is a little bit stupid, because the pen the Prince gave you is gold-plated. But it's the pen the Prince gave you. You can't believe you fell asleep and let it roll off your lap. If the floor weren't covered with carpets it might've gotten _broken_.

You arrange yourself so you can watch Shatter and Hush in a porthole reflection, to preserve the illusion that you're not paying attention to their conversation. Sure enough, they begin signing about that spell. It doesn't take them long to agree there's nothing they can do to break it right now; there's no telling what traps messing with mind magic would set off, even if they could open their cuffs without incurring Undine's wrath. They toss around ideas for other ways of getting the information to you -- writing it down and leaving the papers unguarded, for instance, or talking about the non-Titan specifics of what they've seen, where they've been. What they thought of the lodgings in Three Birds, for instance.

Three Birds? You've never seen that as a place name, and you've memorized more maps than most people have even seen. It could be a named dwelling, or a little hamlet too small for even a dot on the most detailed maps, but more likely it's a code name for a city. Perhaps an effort to avoid spelling out a name there's no sign for, since finger-spelling is more widely known than sign. You can't bring to mind any landmarks associated with three birds, no cities with three birds on the crest -- the flags of several countries are packed with eagles with varying numbers of heads, but the only line of three you can remember is leopards -- maybe a pun? A play on sounds? A clever mistranslation? Too many possibilities. You'll find a way to clarify it later.

As so often happens, the moment you give up, the answer arrives like a popular courtesan flouncing into a theater box in the middle of the second act, late and disruptive and smug about it: Trilarces. Tri-larks, yes, very clever -- _oh god_.

That's up east, in the oldest part of the Empire, near the Barrowlands where the Condesce is entombed.

Your mouth is suddenly dry in a way wine can't fix.

 **We should decide what the important facts are,** Shatter signs. **Then we can figure out how to convey them.**

**I agree. But how do we rank them? By what action they inspire?**

**By what will hurt the Titan most.**

**I think there may be higher priorities, brother.**

**Not to me.**

**Do you propose we let him wake the Mad Queen, then? Because there's no doubt she'll use him badly, even if he thinks he'll be in charge.**

**She promised him endless battle. That's all he cares about. It's not like he's not used to Mother-Killer's coils in his guts, why would the Mad Queen's bother him more? She invented Taking. She summoned up the coils in the first place. Same shit, different century.**

Hush nods thoughtfully. **Titan values nothing, not even us. Nothing but the bait she's fishing with. The Prince is a bit of a wimp, I don't know if he'll be any use, but if Titan's plans get out their father may hear about it. So we tell them about Threebirds.**

**Yes. The waterworks on Tomb River.**

**And the gathering of Waking People. That might be more immediate, actually.**

**Maybe. The dam must be almost finished by now.**

**But it's useless until the spring rains. The Waking People are moving already.**

The limitations of sign have forced them to use some more odd constructions, but nothing as tricky as 'Three Birds' for Trilarces. 'Mother-Killer' for the Orphaner, 'Mad Queen' for the Condesce, 'Tomb' for Barrow, 'Waking People' for Resurrectionists.

It's a struggle to keep your note-taking measured enough to look like codebreaking. Your heart is hammering. You try to make yourself a passive conduit. Let the information flow from your eyes to the page untasted. This is what you're trained for. It's not like you've never recorded terrible things without reacting to them before. It's a mystery why it's so hard to do now.

Your nerves are just so frayed lately. The steel door between Sollux the spy and Sollux the man feels half rusted through.

You have to reach deep into your well of willpower to find the focus and detachment that once came so easily, but you do it. You keep your head down, watch the conversation in your periphery, and write it down verbatim in shorthand. You don't wonder how close the Titan's plan is to completion. You don't worry about the Prince, run ragged by his brother's sabotage so he won't interfere with that plan. You don't fume at the Orphaner, Emperor in name only, skiving off like a truant schoolboy while one of his sons struggles to serve his subjects and the other plays with matches in the powder magazine. You don't think about how you'll get this information to the Prince, or what he'll do with it once he has it, whether you'll be able to join him, or whether he'll go after the Titan on his own despite promising you he wouldn't.

You just write it all down.


	35. Hold The Course

The ship surfaces late in the night. Despite the blackness outside the portholes, which makes it impossible to judge depth, the repeated popping of your ears gives you plenty of warning. You cap your ink and clean your pen. Shatter and Hush stop signing, and Shatter massages Hush's jaw and throat; pressure changes must be extra uncomfortable for him, since he can't yawn properly.

At last, after about an hour of this, there's a prolonged roaring sound as water pours off the bubble. The ship rolls sharply, corrects with a stomach-twisting corkscrew motion, and then begins pitching slowly on long deep-water waves. The bubble pops. Wood creaks, portholes rattle, and lamp flames dance as fresh air rushes through.

Undine's voice comes right next to your ear: "Come up and help, you layabouts, this isn't a pleasure cruise!" From the way Shatter jumps and Hush blinks, she sent it to them as well.

You're glad enough to have something physical to occupy yourself with. Undine is cranky at first -- short on sleep, no doubt, as well as magically worn out -- but becomes more sanguine once she's set the three of you to work. Hush and Shatter are far stronger than a mortal, but totally ignorant of nautical matters. You grew up in a port city, and have played helpful-passenger on small boats occasionally since you were nine or ten, but you're still physically weak from your illness. Undine doesn't push you; once she sees that you can barely hold onto a line, let alone haul, she gives you lighter tasks. Clearing seaweed from the deck, hanging lamps, that sort of thing.

The sky is cloudless, moonless, vast and starry. It eases a little of the tension you're carrying. Not all of it, but enough that you can breathe again. You take a break at the bow, leaning on your broom, to watch the black hills of water swell and sink against the starfield.

Undine is trying to teach Shatter and Hush to tack. Her clear shout of "Ready about!" is followed by "Helm a-lee!" and then a storm of running and flapping and "For cod's sake, Hush, the next time you don't secure it I'll wrap it around your neck!" and "Where are you going with that sheet, Shatter, are you walking a dog? Are you walking a dog on a leash, is that what you're doing?"

You occupy yourself by trying to deduce the course you're sailing. It's an awkward zigzag stitch like a tailor's nightmare, not so much close-hauled as throwing wild punches vaguely in the direction of the wind, but you think the general intent is southwards.

Since you haven't known exactly where you were since you left Heyton, you can only make an educated guess, and a pretty vague one at that, but you think your destination might be the Annulus, the vaguely circular archipelago where Echo and his twin once ruled. Your memories of the place are all sun, sea, and siege warfare. Not enough wood to cook with. Water green from a journey in a ship's hot hold, because there were no natural sources that didn't arise within the city's walls. You'd never seen a man actually die of food poisoning before, but during that siege you saw dozens go down from eating raw shellfish out of the mouth of a river the city dumped its sewage and dead bodies in.

You distinctly remember thinking, _Well, that's one way to get rid of the stupid ones._

Were you really that cold back then?

Undine interrupts your thoughts by joining you, and you're glad for the distraction. She flops over the rail and lets out a soft giggle. "They're such terrible sailors," she stage-whispers. "Did you see?"

"No, but I heard. What did Shatter do, take the sheet and run for the stern?"

She nods, covering another giggle with her hand. "The look on his face when he saw he had nowhere to secure it! And Hush, Hush stood by the cleat like a good boy, but then he'd just wrap the sheet around a few times and watch it unravel. Magic is so complicated, and sailing is so simple, and yet somehow --" She suddenly straightens and twists to yell over her shoulder, "Shatter! Quit messing with the tiller! If you take her aback, so help me --!"

"Do you want me to take the helm?" you offer. "I think I'm about spent where broom-wrangling is concerned, and I'm pretty sure I can resist the temptation to spin the wheel."

"In a minute. This is funny." She gives you a sideways grin. It gradually fades. She looks almost serious when she says, "Tell me the truth, Sollux. Did you honestly send to the Prince by accident?"

You shrug. "I was dreaming that I had to reach him because he was bleeding himself dry, and then whoops, actual psychic contact. When you said I have latent ability, that was the first I ever considered it."

Though maybe you should've thought of it before. It's not like you haven't noticed that you can feel it when people are doing magic near you, it's not that you don't know not everyone can sense that. You just let yourself settle into a role, you suppose. When Aradia first started showing talent, when she wanted to leave her apprenticeship at the printer's and find a magic teacher, you were content to be her support and her sidekick. Even joining the Intelligence Division was initially a way of being closer to her, since it works hand in hand with the Mage Corps, and Aradia's ability to speak with the dead made her a valuable source of operational intel. Once she was gone, you just… you had a job to do. You had to focus on your work.

Undine says, "You're going to have to learn magic now."

"What?" You straighten. "No, why? No, that's dumb. It's not my area. There's no time, either."

"Enough not to be doing it by accident, at least."

You give a frustrated huff. "I'm not some adolescent who's going to blow the roof off in a tantrum or burn his brain out showing off. I'm a grown man. And I know for a fact my self-control is unusually good, it's part of my job. I won't be doing any more accidental magic, trust me."

She shrugs. "Well, I wasn't offering to teach you myself or anything."

Oops. She was totally offering to teach you herself.

"Sorry," you say humbly. "I'm being a jerk. I'm just kind of stressed out. Can you get a message to the Prince, and if so, how long can it be?"

"Unless it's urgent, I suggest you wait. We'll be putting in tomorrow afternoon. It'll be easier for me to contact him then."

An hour ago, you would've insisted, but fresh air and stars have restored your equilibrium a bit. Will half a day make that much difference? Is it really necessary to lay this on him in the middle of the night? Once he hears what you've found out, he won't get any rest for quite a while -- you know _you_ wouldn't sleep for days after news like that, not if you were in any position to do anything about it, and he's an even worse workaholic than you are.

You nod slowly. "Do I need to keep it short?"

"How long is it if you don't?"

"A few pages. I haven't actually written the report yet."

"Write it, but prepare a summary as well, in case he's too -- in case he doesn't want to hold contact that long."

In case he's too exhausted, she means. Or too closely watched by Titan; you can only guess what he was describing when he said he had to pull Anvil in deep to keep their line secure, but if what you saw is his default mindscape, anywhere but the top of that tower is bound to be horrible and you don't blame her for not wanting to spend more time there than she has to.

"Yes ma'am. I'll go do that now if you don't need me up here."

"Slow down, sailor," she says with a sympathetic smile. "I think Shatter's had enough fun, why don't you go take over. No clowning around, I want to concentrate for a while. You can leave her on this tack if you don't feel up to coaching novices."

Shatter is reluctant to relinquish the wheel to you, but gives it up when you tell him it's on Undine's orders. Undine has marked the heading, and the water is deep, free of navigational hazards. There's no chair like there was on the fishing boat you helped out on as a kid, but there are bench seats on the sides of the box thingie that houses the wheel mechanism, so you can sit sideways and hold the wheel steady. Shatter and Hush sit on the other side of it, backs to your back; if they're conversing, you're not meant to see.

Little by little, you pick apart the strands of information you have and try to examine them objectively. It's aggravating how difficult it is. Too much emotion tangled up in everything. That situation you warned Anvil about -- where you want to see the Prince so badly that you convince yourself it's a tactical necessity to meet up with him -- yeah, this is that situation.

Item one: you have a great whack of intel on the Titan's shenanigans that the Prince doesn't have. Unless Hush and Shatter are playing a ridiculously deep game, that intel is reliable. It should still be verified. You're not in a position to verify it, unfortunately, so you're going to have to hand it to the Prince and let him deal with it, but that places another burden on --

Wait, back up a second.

Why are you thinking as if it _should_ be your job to verify it?

Goddamnit, you've half convinced yourself you're the Prince's spymaster, after all your protests to the contrary. You are _so_ compromised.

Except. No. Because.

Pause. Check the compass. Watch the stars until the panic passes. Untangle it strand by strand.

Okay, in order to decide what to do with this information, you have to decide whether to treat it as reliable. That's your decision to make. Questioning the Titan's former Taken was your idea, and you pretty much manipulated Anvil into going along with it; none of this is a matter of following orders or doing your job. Your purpose all along has been to keep the Titan from getting away with whatever fuckery he's up to. That's not a matter of loyalty. It's not a Rebel thing or an Imperial thing. It's just a Titan Is A Dangerous Bastard thing.

How far are you willing to go to stop him? If he really is trying to free the Condesce, what are you willing to sacrifice to keep him from succeeding? The Rebellion? The Prince? Your own principles?

You know what the answer should be. Before the original Sufferer managed to imprison her, the Condesce nearly wiped out humanity playing around with plagues and monsters, and considering how the science of magic has advanced since then, she'd be able to do a lot more damage a lot faster once she got up to speed. Which is probably what she wants Titan for, honestly; 'endless battle' aside, he's merely adequate as a military commander, but he's just packed full of the Orphaner's sorcerous innovations. Which were apparently based on her magic to begin with, so she wouldn't have any trouble assimilating them. If she gets out of that barrow, nothing you value will be worth a damn for long.

That doesn't make it easier, though. What if telling the Prince makes him rush off still exhausted and Titan kills him -- or worse, because there's all _kinds_ of worse to be had when the magic level involved is that ridiculous, Titan could pick his brain or enslave him or drain his power or any damn thing. What if you have to enlist the Orphaner's help and he uses you as his personal library for Rebel tactics and personnel data, and he uses that to destroy the resistance movement, and then the world is Orphaner's corruption-ridden fascist playground forever after? What if you break your own ethical code so thoroughly that you can't live with yourself afterwards? What if --

No.

You refuse to be like this.

You don't know why you've been turning into the same kind of emotion-blinded idiot you've always snarked at other people for being, but even if you can't stop it happening, you can refuse to give in to it. You haven't become less intelligent. You can still distinguish fact from feeling. You can still _do the right fucking thing_ even if you hate every second of it.

Start over.

Item: intel from Taken is reliable to the best of your ability to discern.

Item: Prince exhausted and magically depleted, his personnel and resources probably spread thin and in the wrong direction, cannot effectively act immediately.

Item: you're nowhere near fully recovered from blood poisoning, still can't even stand up for more than an hour or two at a time, let alone travel under your own power.

Item: Shatter and Hush may have more data to divulge.

Item: cipher may still be relevant, and thanks to Anvil's help while you were bedridden, you've got a long enough list of probable hits that you think you can start guessing source pretty soon.

Item: Undine has made it clear that hiding your group from Titan is a strain on her, and wants you wait to report until you reach your destination tomorrow afternoon.

All these elements support waiting to report, staying put until the Prince has time to come for you, and focusing on the cipher. However --

Item: everyone who knows this crucial information is right here on this ship. If something happened, the Prince would never find out what Titan's up to, which might allow Titan to succeed -- particularly considering that 'something happening' means you and Undine being either killed or captured, which would render the Prince distracted at best -- and then it's Condesce time, and the whole world can kiss its ass goodbye.

You don't know exactly what kind of 'something' _could_ happen. Maybe a sudden storm could distract Undine enough that her anti-scrying business falters and lets Titan find you. Maybe you could unexpectedly run into the Orphaner's fleet and he could grab you and Hush and Shatter -- he'd be less likely to take Undine, but he's made free with his sons' troops before. You're not arrogant enough to assume you're even capable of imagining all the possible disaster scenarios. What you do know is that the consequences would be unacceptable.

"Guys?" You stand up. "Can one of you take over for a minute?"

Hush takes the wheel, and you hurry down to the cabin to scribble down a quick summary. Still waving the paper to dry the ink, you go to the prow, where Undine is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed.

She scowls without opening them. "I told you I want to concentrate."

"This is important."

She sighs and looks up. Raises her eyebrows questioningly when she sees the paper.

"I realized all our eggs are in one basket right now," you explain. "Waiting a day or so to tell the Prince this probably won't break anything, but we can't take the chance that he never hears it at all. If something happened to this ship tonight _everyone_ would be screwed. And it occurs to me you might have a way to get us some insurance."

Undine takes the paper. Reads. Stops breathing. Crumples it in her hand.

You can't read her. You don't know if you've gotten across how important this is. "I know I'm an outsider as far as you're concerned. I know I have no authority to make decisions here. But my professional opinion --"

"Reef the mainsail," she interrupts, unfolding gracefully to her feet. "And for pity's sake, tell Shatter not to scream this time!"


	36. Shark Pudding

The process for taking in sail is different from what you're used to -- for 'pulled whatever lines the old guy told you to pull and also you were twelve' values of 'used to' -- so the three of you are still struggling to secure everything when the first tentacle breaches.

Shatter flails and drops the reefing cord he's tying, but he doesn't scream. Hush just freezes. For your part, you find it oddly easy to stay calm and on task. Having handed off part of the decision-making to Undine is a huge load off your mind. Which is emotional thinking, you're aware -- she's still not your C.O., and her priorities are not the same as yours -- but at this point you'll take what you can get.

Tentacles slither over the sides, tips wrapping delicately around the rails. Wood creaks. The wind seems to get stronger, and the jib and staysail flap oddly. Now you know why Undine wanted the mainsail taken in: her kraken thing is hanging onto the ship, and its vast body is creating so much drag that if the mainsail were spread, a gust could split it or break the mast.

God, that thing is huge. You can't see anything but its limbs -- and not much of those, outside the few pools of lamplight -- but if you assume it's squid-shaped, a reasonable guess from the hooks on the tentacles, and that its body is directly beneath the ship, it's about the size of a blue whale.

"Why not a dolphin?" Shatter complains. "Nobody hates dolphins. Or a whale shark, whale sharps are abobrable!"

"Are you scared of squid?"

"Are you _not_?" he looks incredulous.

"I never really had a non-culinary opinion on squid. Jellyfish, now, _those_ things are freaky."

He gives a theatrical shudder. "Imagine a jellyfits that big."

"Yikes."

He sighs. "You still don't look scared, but I apprecilate your intempt."

"Anything for a bro," you say, and he snorts.

"Boys!" Undine calls. "Everything squared away?"

Shatter scrambles to tie the last cord, and you call back, "Yes ma'am!"

"Good! Which of you is the best shot?"

You look at each other. Shot? Shatter shakes his head, points both index fingers at his eyes with a 'duh!' look. Apparently the magical prosthetics aren't good enough for shooting. Hush shrugs. You shout to Undine, "Guess that'd be me, why?"

"Fire both grapnels into her arms! Make sure you get them into the muscle, if you only catch skin they'll pull through!"

Leaving the tiller to Hush, you take a few strides forward so you can hear her better. Not that the waves and wind are especially loud, but you must've misunderstood. "I'm sorry? You want me to shoot your pet? With those --" You gesture to the nearest grapnel gun, with its wickedly barbed steel quarrel. "While it's _hugging the ship_."

"Yes, and hurry up!" When you still hesitate, she rolls her eyes and makes an impatient gesture. "I'm going to use her as a spell anchor, and while she's bearing for me she'll be in a trance, she can't hang on. The grapnels are to keep her with us. She's used to it, she won't flinch. Now pull up your big boy pants and do it!"

You pull up your big boy pants and do it.

Cruelty to pets and working animals bothers the hell out of you, even ones as monstrous as this. There's this whole _It trusted you, how could you?_ thing going on. Telling yourself the barbs must be like a pinprick to a creature that big only helps a little bit. When you fire the first grapnel into the thickest part of a tentacle, you catch yourself muttering, "Sorry."

The slick skin twitches and shivers, but the animal doesn't flip out and crush the ship, which is really all you're asking from the evening at this point.

Once both cables are locked tight, you give Undine a thumbs-up. She nods. She puts her hand on the tentacle-tip wrapped around the bowsprit, coaxes it to unwind and slither onto the deck. Once it's far enough on board to suit her, she snatches a humongous golden trident out of nowhere and stabs it through the tentacle and into the deck.

The whole ship groans for a moment. A vast, deep noise comes from below, a grinding, bubbling howl that turns the glassy swells rough with vibrations. Your mind goes to your writing box -- belowdecks and not waterproofed, all your work is going to be lost if you end up swimming -- but the sound subsides.

Undine kneels beside the pinned tentacle, produces a small knife, and begins carving sigils into the beast's hide. The blood that wells in the cuts is too dark; it's hard to be sure by lamplight, but you think it's closer to purple than red. You take one of the lanterns and go to the side, checking a hunch; sure enough, there are matching scars on a couple of the other tentacles. Three pocks from the trident and an unreadable scribble from the sigil-drawing. While you're looking, the unsecured tentacles start to relax. Their coils loosen until they release their grasp on the ship and slither into the sea. The ship creaks again as the monster becomes deadweight. There are a few metallic pinging noises from the grapnel guns, but the cables hold.

You feel it when Undine's spell catches. A coldness, a sense of pressure. It gets harder to breathe. Her hair begins to rise and sway as if underwater. You glance at Hush and Shatter and find them both watching Undine intently; you can't tell if their expressions are fear or admiration.

There's a splash from the vicinity of the port side grapnel. Afraid the quarrel might be pulling out, you hurry over. What you see is arguably worse: a triangular fin cutting the water.

"Oh, shit," you mutter. You look to Undine. She's still busy wizarding, black smoke and despair-aura and all. You're pretty sure disturbing her would be a terrible idea. So you beckon Shatter over instead. You hold the lantern over the water and point at where the thin, dark stream of blood from the grapnel wound clouds the water.

"So?" he says.

"Wait for it," you mutter.

Another soft splash, another fin tip breaks the surface, and the tentacle judders.

"Oh, _shit_ ," Shatter agrees. "They're gonna bite ripe _through_ it."

That's your fear as well. It'll take them a while, they're no bigger to the kraken than piranhas to a cow, but you've heard how _that_ match ends. You study the grapnel gun, but there's no way to mount a fresh quarrel while the other one's still secured; the cable is in the way. When you turn back, Shatter is fiddling uncertainly with his black-and-silver bracelet. " _No_ ," you snap. "You wanna break her concentration _now_? The fuck is wrong with you?"

"Everything," he says absently. "All the things, progrably." But he leaves off messing with the cuff. He picks up an unattached grapnel bolt and spare coil of line.

"Where would we even secure it, though? We can't just hang onto the line. That shark outweighs us, it'd pull us right over."

The tentacle trembles again. There's a roiling in the water, and for a moment a white belly flashes just beneath the surface. Before you can think about it, you snatch one of your knives from your belt and huck it at the fucking thing as hard as you can.

The shark pulls a shocked 180, twisting as if it thinks it can bite its own belly. And then another shark does the honors: it takes a great big chomp out of the wounded shark, knife and all. Thrashing, they sink below the waves together.

Shatter lets out a high-pitched tension-giggle. "Whoops!"

"Aw, fuck me," you grumble. "That was so dumb." You curl your hand and think _come_ , and feel the knife trying to obey -- feel that imaginary fishing line taut and vibrating, as if it's the shark you're trying to reel in, not the knife it swallowed. You feel it getting farther away, and pull harder. A sharp, sparkling pain begins to needle behind your left eye. Goddammit, you do not need one of those headaches, it's been years since you had one, why now?

"Nope, it's gone," Shatter shrugs.

"Shut up. The Prince gave me these." _COME!_ You take mental hold of that fishing line and pull so hard you see pinwheels. The knife rips suddenly free, shoots out of the sea trailing a glittering arc of bloody water, and plops into your hand.

There's a shred of sharkskin impaled on it. You scrape it off against the rail.

When you glance at Shatter, the look he's giving you is unnervingly thoughtful. You scowl at him. "What," you grumble.

"I guess the Primps already knew," he says.

"Knew what." You're in no mood for banter. Your head is throbbing, your knife is gross, and more sharks are still arriving. "Just spit it out."

"Those wouldn't work for somebody with no magic."

You glare accusingly at the slimy knife. "Bull. He would've mentioned it."

"Apartmently not!" He shrugs. In a transparent attempt to distract you from grumping at him, he leans way over the rail and crows, "Ooh, they're really digging in now!"

" _That is not a good thing!_ " you say through your teeth.

Well, since you already have the headache…

"Nice!" Shatter says when you get the next shark right in the eye.

You guess it's good he's not afraid of you or your knives even after what you did to him with them on the barge, but his voice is making your head hurt worse. "They're probably at it on the starboard side too. See if you can find a landing pike or a gaff hook or something to harrass them with."

"Aye aye, poopstain!" He flails out a joke of a salute, then runs off before you can kick him for it.

The sky is deep blue and fading to silvery pink at the eastern horizon when the oppressive weight of Undine's spellcasting finally lifts. She leans on her trident when she stands, and it takes her a visible effort to yank it free. The pinned tentacle slithers overboard. "Cut the grapnel lines," she says.

You call your knife back for the last time and use it to slice through the taut cable. Tired as you are, and with your head gonging, you aren't quite nimble enough to get out of the way of the freed tentacle as it whips past. One of its hooks opens a gash in your calf. Swearing with more resignation than venom, you plop down against the side of the cabin. You feel as much as hear it when the other cable parts. There's no outcry from Shatter, so he must've been quicker on his feet than you were. You saw a piece of your trouser leg loose to use as a bandage, every movement making your skull throb and your leg drip blood, cursing Taken and their weird magic and their weird pets in a tooth-clenched mutter.

The kraken's tremendous groan shivers the sea again. The water froths -- mounds -- breaks from a slick dome the size of a carnival tent.

_Oh_ , you think absently as you gaze into the nearer of its shield-sized eyes, _so it's an octopus on that end. An octopus with squid tentacles. Neat._

Moving with sentient deliberateness, it grasps the trailing ends of the cables with a knotting tentacle-tip and rips the barbs free. The water around it still froths with sharks, and you wince when the wounded arms submerge, anticipating even worse carnage. And you're right, but not quite in the way you expected. Because when the tentacle comes back up, it's wrapped around a struggling shark. A second tentacle wraps counter-turnwise to the first, and then --

_Ewww_. Sharksplosion.

The kraken basically just goes to town on the sharks, buzz-sawing through them with gleeful rips of its hook-studded tentacles, showering the ocean and the ship with blood and giblets. It doesn't eat them, just drops their pulped carcasses back in the water. The grapnel wounds are less awful each time those two tentacles emerge. As if the beast is somehow healing itself by killing.

Is the fucking thing doing _necromancy_?

At last it feels around for another shark to shred and comes up empty-tentacled. It blows great gouts of fishbreath-and-spray through its funnels in a huge, satisfied, cephalopodish sigh. It begins to settle lower in the water. Before its eyes submerge, though, it raises one final tentacle, snakes it over the rail toward you, and _pats your fucking foot_.

You just sit there and let it happen. What are you going to do, run?

Your headache spikes as your calf muscle suddenly knots hard. Yelping, you curl over to clutch it -- and find your skin whole under the hasty bandage.

"Uh. Thanks," you choke out.

There's no way to tell if it heard you. It doesn't wave or wink or anything. It doesn't even have eyelids. It sinks below the pink-frothed waves, leaving behind a spreading debris field of chunky shark niblets glittering in the light of the rising sun.

You don't quite manage to drag yourself to the rail before you heave. Oh well, it can go out the scuppers with the shark pudding when someone who is not you gets around to swabbing the deck.

A shadow falls over your squinched-shut eyes. "Honestly," Undine says. "With as many battlefields as you've seen, how can you be squeamish about _fish_ guts?"

"I'm not," you croak. "Got a migraine."

" _Oh_ ," she says, as if that's a huge revelation. "No _wonder_."

You're so not in the mood for this. "No wonder fucking what."

"No wonder you never developed your talent. It seemed strange that you wouldn't, what with your sister learning wizardry right in front of you, but if magic gives you migraines, you'd have conditioned yourself instinctively to tamp it down whenever it began to surface, wouldn't you?"

You groan. "Lady, I would be delighted to talk more about that sometime when my brain isn't trying to dig its way out of my skull with a broken bottle. Did you get a message to the Prince or not?"

"I did, and I'll forgive you for taking that tone with me just this once, because you look awfully pathetic. Stay there."

"Yes. Okay. Not moving is a task I can accomplish." You're talking to yourself two words in; she's gone off to boss the others around. Something about the pump. Yes, hosing off the deck sounds like a great idea, and you would totally get up and help if -- oh look, your stomach wasn't completely empty after all.


	37. The Island

From the sound of things, Shatter is clowning around with the spray while Hush mans the pump. The occasional splatter of cool seawater reaches you, and it feels wonderful. A while later, Shatter takes your arm and hauls you upright, and you pry your eyes open to see Undine with the canvas hose tucked under her arm, aiming the brass nozzle at you.

"Strip down," she orders, and you belatedly realize Shatter is naked. His body is such a mess of scars it makes yours look pristine by comparison.

"Perv," you snicker.

Undine rolls her eyes. "Your clothes are disgusting, and I will not have you dripping shark soup on my carpets. Take 'em off."

You grumble as you comply, but it's not about modesty; no one's really body-shy after any time in the army. It's just that you're exhausted, and moving hurts your head, and you're not sure you can bend over without _falling_ over. In the end Shatter has to help you, although his idea of helping is stepping on your pants while you try to pull your feet free of them. Undine giggles at your antics; you flip her off.

Then she calls for Hush to start pumping again. You're too busy hanging onto your glasses with one hand and Shatter's arm with the other to protect your tender bits from the stinging spray. You twist away, slip on the slick deck, and go down in a heap.

Undine keeps the hose on you the whole time, the heartless beast.

At last she judges you clean enough, and tells you to sunbathe until you're dry. The whole deck is one big puddle, but the tropical sun is climbing, so at least you're not cold. You lie with your arm across your face until someone brings you a wet cloth to drape over your eyes. Hush, you think, because they don't say anything. The headache just keeps scraping away at the inside of your skull. Miserable as it is, you tell yourself it could be worse. When you were a kid, no one accepted 'headache' as an excuse for slacking off work, and the jagged halos you sometimes see before one comes on used to terrify you. And once you joined the Company, of course, it was function-or-die a lot of the time.

You haven't had one since…

Huh.

Since Aradia died.

Has she been protecting you somehow? You would normally dismiss that as wishful thinking at best, dangerously illogical superstition at worst -- except that in the past few days your dreams of her have pointed out Titan's misdirection, held him off when he hijacked your mind, and got you into the Prince's dream when he desperately needed a reality check. Maybe this latent magical ability you supposedly have is responsible. Maybe you did it yourself. But she was there every time, and it's not like you _always_ dream about her.

Your front is dry and starting to feel sunburnish. Turning over is a huge effort and makes your head throb like someone's driving nails into it. The breeze feels nice on your wet back, though.

While you toast on the other side, you mentally compose a letter to the Prince in which you describe recent events in the most hilarious and improbable way possible. You're not sure any written description would be half as funny as just having a sunburned ass and watching him try to decide whether to ask how you got it.

"Sollits." Bare toes prod your thigh. "Put some fucking clothes on, you excrebitionist."

"Ngh." Shading your face with your hand, you reluctantly pry one eye open -- whimper at the glare off the sea, and promptly squinch it shut again. That brief glance told you Shatter is no longer naked, and is holding something that, from context, is probably your clothing. "Gimme." You flop an open hand in his direction.

A pile of cloth lands on your hand and arm. It's a bit salt-stiff, but mostly dry, and it doesn't smell like shark guts, which you figure is the important thing. While you try to sort it out and get dressed without moving or opening your eyes any more than absolutely necessary, Shatter just watches unhelpfully, occasionally snickering.

"Sh'up, dick," you mutter, to absolutely no effect.

"I get 'em too, you know," he says eventually.

"Huh? Migraines?"

"Yup."

"From magic, or just in general?"

"From magic."

"So how'd you end up a wizard? Are you just that much of a masochist?"

"I learned to shamble it." A hesitation. "Candle it."

When he doesn't follow that up, you prompt, "Sorry, still not getting that."

"Chan. Nel. Channel."

"Really? Channel -- what, the pain? Does it make it not hurt?"

"Still hurts, but different? More all-over and not so sick."

"Yeah, I'd take that. What do you channel it _into_?"

"Do my lashes remind you of anything?"

Just thinking about those jagged, writhing arcs of color makes you feel a little queasy right now -- which kind of supplies the answer, doesn't it? "Your whips are _made out of migraine_? That's hardcore, dude."

He makes this proud little 'hah!' noise that is frankly cute as hell. "The more magic, the more headank, the more I can fuck shit up!"

You settle gingerly onto your back so you can button your pants. Feels like someone cut the other leg short to match the one you butchered for bandaging, so they both end raggedly just below the knee. Great. You are totally a real sailor now. Even with your eyes shut, the glare of the sky makes you groan a little. "God, I bet it sucked fermented camel balls learning enough to do that, though. It's just not worth it for me, man. It's not like I ever wanted to be a wizard."

"But your knifes."

"Didn't do this to me until I tried to pull one through a shark. I'll just have to be a bit more careful not to get them stuck." You don't sound entirely convinced, and Shatter just snorts.

"You're not aplowed to have yours be whips," he says imperiously. "That's _my_ schtick."

"Like I'd even want to copy you," you sniff. Then you have to spoil the effect by asking him for a hand up.

 

* * *

 

You spend the bulk of the day lying in the cabin with your eyes covered. It's not the worst migraine you've ever had -- you can keep water down, and as long as you stay still the pain holds steady at merely-obnoxious. At one point you try to sit up and get some work done, and it goes directly to excruciating, so you don't force the issue. You doze. What dreams you have are jumbled, abstract nonsense; you're in no danger of dreamwalking by accident again.

You start hearing seagulls after a few hours of this. You must be nearing land. Their screeching and squabbling doesn't drill into your head as badly as you would've expected, which is a good sign, but it's still not fun. One of the feathery little assholes has the gall to perch in an open porthole and monologue on the topics of 'yark!' and 'kyaw!' until you chuck a pillow at it.

Shatter and Hush must be getting better at sailing, because Undine hardly yells at them at all during the docking process. Your headache is nearly gone by then. You gradually acclimatize yourself to the light; first with your eyes closed but uncovered, and then looking at the ceiling, and then, when the dancing golden net of light reflected there doesn't send you on a return trip to painland, looking out the porthole at the sparkling sea. It's a bit wincey, but tolerable. At last you gingerly sit up. A long, slow comber-wave of a throb travels from behind your left eye, through your sinuses, down to the hinge of your jaw, and then it drains away. It leaves you feeling hollow and breakable and light. A nutshell boat aimlessly drifting.

It's much brighter up on deck, but it's slanting, mellow afternoon light. You take your time letting your eyes get used to it. When at last you raise your head, you do it slowly, following the algae-stained slabs of the stone dock to a neglected-looking quay. Weeds sprout from gaps in the paving. There are saplings growing in bombardment craters -- once you spot the first stone cannonball, you're suddenly seeing them everywhere, both whole and broken -- and the wall above the quay, darker stone, is cracked and hollowed from the punishment of heavy guns. There's an iron shot embedded fifteen or twenty feet up, streaking rust like dried blood from the wound it made. Finally, you dare to take in the whole thing against the cloudless sky: an island barely bigger than the fort that perches on it, war-shattered and overgrown.

Shatter is already halfway up the switchbacked stair to the fort, his dandelion-puff head bright against tumbled stone and chaparral brush. Hush is following at a leisurely stroll. _They_ don't seem to have any doubts about the available accomodations.

"Okay," you say bemusedly. "At least we'll have privacy."

Undine hops down beside you, looking brilliantly cheerful, as if a certain level of sleep deprivation makes her manic just like it does you. "Are you being ironic?"

"What? No, it's obvious it's abandoned for years." Only after you say that do you realize you recognize the place. Not from personal experience, but from intelligence reports. "Etaska, isn't it? Back before the Company switched sides, our Captain had this protracted, awkward squabble with Imperial brass over whether to occupy it. The brass was like, 'It commands the only navigable channel north of Belarna!' and the Captain was like, 'It doesn't _command_ jack shit, it's a _disaster_.'"

"It's ever so strategic," she says with a primness you're pretty sure is mocking. "It kept the Empire out of the Annulus for centuries, you know."

"Sure, it was great against carracks with castle-mounted popguns. It's totally indefensible now that everybody's mounting 42-pounders just above the waterline. That oh-so-navigable channel means you can sail a three-decker halfway around the damn island, well within the range of modern long guns, pounding away at the tower and giggling at the poor assholes trying to hit _anything_ with the shitty fixed bombards they had up there. I guess if you put something long-range on a swivel you could make it a little more expensive to take, but the elevation still sucks. Say you build the island twice as tall and slap a star fort on top, there's still no source of water and no room for livestock, and even if you solve _that_ little conundrum, then someone brings in a halfway decent mage and you're fucked anyway."

She's laughing at you when you finally wind down. "I should've guessed you'd be an artillery nerd."

"It's part of my job," you grumble. You're not really mad, though. You figure you deserve a little teasing for that rant. "Tell me there's enough of a roof left on the place to keep the sun off, at least."

"Come and see!"

 

* * *

 

She _is_ an archmage, after all. You really shouldn't be surprised.

The broken shells of the old square tower and its outbuildings are an illusion. As you pass the boundary of the inner wall, they vanish like a mirage, and you find yourself standing in the brick-paved courtyard of an elegant miniature palace.

There is a reflecting pool. There are rows of date palms. There's a little octagonal fountain, there are vines hanging from balconies, there's a statue of a sexy merman riding a dolphin in a little arched alcove, and abruptly you are s _o fucking done_ with celebrity wizards and all their flash. You experience a brief, irrational desire to piss in the reflecting pool, possibly out of some kind of loyalty to your working-class origins.

You don't know what's happening with your face right now, but Undine finds it hilarious.

"Can I just." You sigh. "I don't suppose."

"Oh, probably!" she grins.

"Will you please show me to a quiet room with a desk in it and leave me alone there. Please. I'm sorry, I'm just." You don't know why you can't complete a sentence suddenly.

Undine's amusement softens a little. It doesn't quite become sympathy, but maybe she's seen this reaction before. "There are no servants," she says, leading the way inside. "I'm sure you can find the kitchen when you're hungry. There's a bath through there, don't get soap in the big pool and don't mess with the heater, it's broken. Bedrooms are upstairs. Pick whichever one you want."

Without waiting for a response from you, she strides off, leaving you alone in the pillared entry… atrium… gallery… thing. Place. Whatever the kind of people who have villas call it.

Everything is spotless white plaster and rounded arches, sky-blue floor tiles and fiddly fretwork shutters -- and there you are in the middle of it in your borrowed, ruined clothes, barefoot, groggy and unshaven, clutching the writing box that is your only baggage. It's just enough like the architecture you grew up with that you can really feel how out of place you are. It's not that you were ever especially class-conscious. It's not that you don't feel worthy to be here or anything like that. It's just…

It's just enough like home to remind you how long it's been since 'home' meant anything to you.

You give your head a sharp shake, irritated with yourself and sick of feelings in general. It's only a damn building. You stomp up the stairs and along a vine-hung arcade to the door at the far end. The room it opens onto is distractingly large, with an unnecessarily high ceiling, and there is absolutely no excuse for the wooden fiddly-bits around the bed, but it's unoccupied and there's a desk and you'll take it.

Bathing, eating, and sleeping can wait until you're less likely to blow the fuck up on anyone who tries to talk to you. Right now, what you need most is a closed door between you and anything that isn't written down in tidy five-letter blocks.


	38. Timber

Having a desk to spread your papers out on feels like the height of luxury. It’s not even a big desk. It’s shallow, cluttered with cubbyholes and drawers, the kind of ladylike desk people put in guest rooms so guests can write gossipy letters about other guests. But it’s not the lid of your writing box propped on your lap, and there’s no danger of your ink bottle sliding off if the wind picks up. You’ll take it.

Silence is another luxury. Gulls and waves don’t count. There are no distracting voices. And there’s a lock on the door — a child could pick it, but there won’t be anyone barging in without warning. The light is fantastic, reflecting off the sea and the white plaster walls to turn the whole room into a golden lamp. On the whole, conditions are so perfect right now that you expect to be unable to work at all, just because life has an obvious sense of irony like that. You’re genuinely surprised when, upon spreading out the notes Anvil left you, the gears of your mind catch and start to whirr.

There are more words you could push through the cipher letter by letter, but that’s the kind of gruntwork you could do while sick and distracted. Right now your head is clear as a glass bell, emptied out by the migraine. Trying to expand the snippets you’ve already got is creative work. This is where genius can stretch its legs.

‘Diplomacy’ turned up TAPPLYTHI. ‘Apply’ is obvious. The ’T’ is probably a negative ending — can’t, don’t, won’t — try ‘not’ — ‘this’ is the simplest option for the end — ‘do not apply this’ gets you NG AT DIPLOMACY A, which you like.

With ‘contact’, Anvil found ODIFICA, tried ‘good if I can’ and got garbage. It looks more like ‘modification’ to you — oh look, O CONTACT WITH, delicious plaintext. That ‘O’… go contact, to contact, ungrammatical in context, NO CONTACT WITH gives you an ‘R’ but you don’t like what you get from ‘their’, ‘for’, ‘our’…

This message is from the Orphaner. You imagine his haughty, abrupt tone. HAVE NO CONTACT WITH springs into your head, which reverses to ‘other modification’.

And then the intuitive leaps start to set each other off in a graceful chain, easy as dancing: you hear NG AT DIPLOMACY A in the Orphaner’s haughty voice and it instantly unfolds into PLAYING AT DIPLOMACY AGAIN, for no reason but that he _would_ say that. This adds ‘rtimber’ to the keytext.

Not the first time you’ve seen ‘timber’. Put that together with ‘do not apply this’ and ‘other modification’ and — you flick through Anvil’s notes — other probables flicker in your mind and expand into words and phrases you don’t even bother testing, because the common theme is coming clear. The keytext is some kind of technical document dealing with wooden construction.

The vast and shadowy jumble of ‘all the books they could’ve used’ that’s been hovering in your mental periphery all this time, looking obstinately impossible at you, suddenly condenses into a very short stack of volumes, most of them quite thin.

Unfortunately, if Undine even has a library in her villa, you doubt it’s big on tradesmen’s manuals.

You push your chair back and stretch. The sun is setting. You’re going to need to hunt up a lamp. And something to eat, too — god, you’re _ravenous_.

Exploring the villa, silent on bare feet, you feel like a thief or a ghost. The emotional part of you wants to make a metaphor out of that, something about how you don’t belong with these people, but you don’t belong with the Rebels anymore either, adrift and lonely bluh bluh — you’re not really interested, and the emotional part is too tired to push very hard.

You hear muffled splashing down one corridor, and a bit of Shatter’s giggle. For a moment you’re tempted by the idea of a bath. You don’t really want to share it with anyone, though. You wander on. If you were Undine, where would you keep lamps? In an ordinary household this size, with the proper number of servants, there’d be a candle closet. There’d be a hall lamp or kitchen fire kept always burning to light things from. But you’re increasingly sure Undine just summons candles when she needs them, or uses magical light, and has never had a guest who doesn’t have the same power or come with their own retinue to handle such things.

When you wind up in the kitchen, therefore, you’re not surprised to find both the iron stove and the old brick hearth bare of even ashes. The copper wood bin is full, but there are cobwebs on it. A bit of rummaging turns up a firesteel and a tin of charcloth in a drawer; you consider them reluctantly for a while. It really would be easier to go find Undine, ask her where the damn lamps are, and get her to light one by magic. The ice chest and remaining box lunches are out on the sideboard, you don’t need to cook — hell, you don’t even know if there is anything to cook. But you have that feeling like you’re on the verge of understanding something, some realization creeping shyly up on you, and talking to anyone might scare it away.

Hell, a few scullery chores won’t kill you.

It’s been a long time since you had to light a fire yourself. You mash your finger with the firesteel and waste a whole piece of charcloth before you get the stove lit. The sense of accomplishment you have when you finally sit back on your heels to close the slatted iron door amuses you.

Rummaging in the pantry turns up several lamps and a big jug of lamp oil. There are also a variety of dry and pickled foods, much nicer than the cobwebs in the woodbin led you to expect. Kept fresh by magic, maybe… or maybe she just pays someone to come out here in a little boat to refresh the supplies every month or so. Ordinarily you’d be very interested in the possibility of a way off this island that doesn’t depend on Undine’s goodwill, but right now all you can bring yourself to care about is the bag of coffee beans and the sugar tin.

There must be a grinder — yeah, there it is — and the kettle is — hello, disturbingly large and colorful spider, your ancestral home is about to be full of boiling water, wouldn’t you be happier in the bushes outside?

The stuff in the ice chest is still good. How long since you’ve had cream in your coffee? Probably not very long, but it _feels_ like years.

It’s full dark by the time you sit down at the old, heavy wooden table with a pot of southern-style coffee, boiled thick and sweet, with a little ruby-glass tumbler to drink it out of because you couldn’t find any mugs. A couple of oil lamps throw your shadow on the white plaster wall. You’ve got a pot of spicy beans and rice slow-cooking on a stove full of dying coals; there should be just enough heat left in them to finish it. And of course, that’s when Undine comes in.

“Ooh, that smells —” she begins, reaching for the coffee pot. You pull it away.

“Hands off the ant’s coffee, grasshopper.”

She tilts her head sweetly. “Do you know, there’s a version of that fable wherein the ant is a thief, plundering his neighbors’ fields in the night.”

“Uh. Point taken.” You might’ve ground them and brewed them, but they’re her beans to begin with. You push the pot toward her. She fetches a cup and joins you at the table.

“If you’ve been avoiding the bath because Titan’s Taken were in it, you can have it to yourself now. They’ve gone upstairs. Sharing a bed in perfect innocence, like puppies.” She turns her glass between her fingertips with a strange little smile. “We’re not quite people anymore, are we?”

You frown at her, not sure if you’re even supposed to reply to that. “What do you mean?”

“I’m jealous,” she admits. “Not because I want either of them,” she adds quickly, though you weren’t going to suggest it. “I’m sure it would be easy to seduce them, and we’d all hate each other afterwards, that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m jealous that they can be kind to each other. It seems to comfort them, and comfort is so hard to find after… what was done to us.”

“I saw the Prince’s dreamscape. What _are_ those things?”

“Ha.” She tosses her coffee back like a shot of whiskey. “I don’t want to talk about this. What were you doing all afternoon, sleeping?”

You go along with the subject change gratefully. “Working on the cipher. I’ve figured out the keytext has to do with wooden construction. That narrows the options down a lot.”

“How do you know?”

“The snippets Anvil and I managed to tease out — ‘modification’ and ‘do not apply this’, several instances of ‘timber’, that kind of thing. It’s still a pretty broad field, it could be any… tradesman’s…” You trail off, gaze unfocusing.

It _couldn’t_ be just any tradesman’s manual, could it? A cabinetmaker, for instance, wouldn’t refer to ‘timber’. No one who works with seasoned wood calls it timber. Loggers and sawyers talk about timber, but they’re not known for their habit of publishing books. A book or pamphlet that’s widely-available enough to serve as a keytext for field agents would have to have been published by a big guild with a literate membership. Masons, maybe? They need to know about wood when they’re building bridges.

“Sollux?” Undine prompts.

“Who else uses timber?”

“Who else besides…?”

“Well, you build siege engines on site, I guess. Not that anyone does that much now that cannons are so… but they still have to…” Heavy cannons stuck in mud. Baulks of timber laid down for them to roll on. Something. Something…

“Who does?”

“Shut up,” you snap. Can’t she see you’re on the verge of an insight? Why do people always poke and prod and distract anyone who looks thoughtful? “Shit, I almost had it. Miners, they have to shore up tunnels. No. But.” Miners and bridges and roads… for cannons…

Undine starts to get up. “I’ll just leave you to —“

“ _Engineers_!” you shout. You shoot out of your chair. As you head for the door, you say, “Summon me a copy, I’ll be right back. Maybe you have one here already. Shit, _I_ had a copy before Mindfang kidnapped me. Everyone does! You get it and I’ll get the cipher, we can crack this before the coffee gets cold!”

“Sollux!” she shouts after you. “A copy of _what_?”

You poke your head around the doorframe. “The Imperial Corps of Engineers’ Handbook!” Then you sprint for your room.


	39. History Repeats

It’s waiting on the table when you get back. That green pasteboard cover — you’ve never seen it in pristine condition, always battered and dog-eared, but it’s still so familiar you wonder how it didn’t come to mind the first time you came across a green book in the Prince’s library.   
  
But then, a library isn’t where you keep a book like that, is it? Officers at the Prince’s level don’t need it, they have _people_ to handle practical matters — and those people don’t think of the Engineers’ Handbook as a _book_ any more than they think of a penknife as a weapon. It’s just a tool of the trade, like a slide rule or a compass. Apparently you didn’t think of it as a book either.  
  
Undine is messing around at the stove. You’re absently surprised she knows what to do with one, considering her rank and also the thing where she’s probably a mermaid. It crosses your mind to apologize for saying ‘shut up’ to her, but you don’t want to start a conversation right now. Not when you’re so close to being _done_ with this fucking thing.  
  
You flick through the pages until you find the chapter on bridging. _The kinds and qualities of timber vary greatly depending on such factors as_ — yep, that’s the one. You take out a fresh sheet of paper and get to work.  
  
THETI MEHAS COMEA GAINF ORMYW EAPON STOBE RESHA RPENE DXIKN OWALL YOURA RGUME…  
  
Half an hour later, you get out another fresh sheet and recopy the resulting plaintext as legible prose, substituting punctuation for the X’s.  
  
 _The time has come again for my weapons to be resharpened. I know all your arguments and will not hear them again. To value a tool more for bluntness and rust is foolish sentimentality. Gather for me the following items: phoenix ash or a phoenix on the verge of burning; water from a stillborn infant’s lungs; two white apples; the lead seal from the temple. Don’t forget to place a new seal. Darkleer may assist you, but trust no one else, particularly Mindfang. My shield has been playing at diplomacy again, and my sword has taken to blackmail. Have no contact with either of them. Obey me in this, and do not report until you can report success._  
  
You drop your pen in the ink bottle, drain your coffee — not as cold as you expected, Undine must’ve refilled your cup without you noticing — and stare at the message in utter bafflement.  
  
What the hell _is_ this shit?  
  
At a guess, ‘shield’ is the Prince and ‘sword’ is the Titan, and the Orphaner clearly knows Mindfang likes to fuck with him, but the rest of it is a mystery. You just hope it’ll make sense to the Prince. The good news is, unless all that mystical-item-collecting is metaphorical, it’s bound to take Redglare a while. She might still be at it even if the Orphaner re-sent the message right away. Of course, it could be a further level of code, but that bit about placing a new seal makes it sound like the items are literal objects. Are white apples even a thing?  
  
Undine trades you a plate of food for the plaintext. There’s a bit of steak as well as the beans and rice. She fried up one of the cuts from the ice chest. It tastes like she didn’t season it with anything but salt, but you’re hungry enough that it would’ve been delicious with no seasoning at all. You wolf your dinner while Undine reads the message.  
  
“Ah,” she says at last. Just that, but it’s a deeply sad little syllable.  
  
You raise your eyebrows questioningly, but don’t prompt. You’re too busy eating. Undine’s plate is untouched, and you’re already eyeing it covetously.  
  
She reads the message again, her pretty face almost comically woeful. Around the time you’re thinking she’s going to make you ask, she gives a gloomy sigh and explains. “I can’t be one-hundred-percent certain; I’ve never seen the Orphaner’s spellbook. But the nature of these ingredients, and the timing… Sollux, I’m sorry, but your relationship with the Prince is over.”  
  
Huh. So that’s where the expression ‘the food turned to ashes in my mouth’ comes from. You take your time chewing your current mouthful. Swallow. Pour yourself another cup of coffee to force it down with. You say calmly, “Bullshit, but go on.”  
  
“Once, years ago, he and I… had something. A friendship, definitely… he believed himself in love with me, I thought him a silly boy with a crush, but I did care for him a great deal. He changed for my sake. Little by little, he began to listen to his conscience, to question the gospel of eternal conquest with which his father had poisoned his mind. He tried to curb his brother’s excesses. He granted my people — the Merfolk — a level of autonomy that the Empire never gives its conquered territories. He let me keep my throne. He demanded taxes and troop levies, but didn’t meddle with our way of life, didn’t burden us with those Secret Police who dig for mutiny until they’ve created it. And I came to believe that an Empire in his hands could be a good thing. What’s national pride when weighed against peace and prosperity?”  
  
Coffee sloshes over your thumb. You set the cup down. You shouldn’t be so disturbed to hear your own compromised principles echoed here. It’s not like you invented that train of thought. “But?”  
  
“One day, the Orphaner summoned him. He was gone for weeks. When he returned, he didn’t care about me anymore.”  
  
“His memory got erased?”  
  
“Not exactly. He knew who I was, but saw our friendship as a foolish weakness, which he immediately corrected by Taking me. The Taking is bad enough, but when it comes as a betrayal from someone you loved… well, I was quite mad for some time, and I still don’t think I’m as sane as you assume. You’ve only seen me in quiet times.”  
  
You remember her pinning her kraken’s arm to the deck with a trident, and refrain from commenting on the question of her sanity. You suspect she cared a lot more whether she hurt the creature before she was Taken. Instead you say, “You once told me, ‘When you leave him, plan it better than I did.’ This is what you meant, isn’t it? You thought it might happen again — the Orphaner scooping his emotions out or whatever — and you expect me to run.”  
  
“I knew as soon as he looked at me — when he came back — I looked in his eyes and I knew he was different, but I didn’t want to believe. My instincts were telling me, _get out, it’s all gone wrong_ , but…” She prods at her plate, chin crumpling. “He was my best friend and I _miss_ him.” A sob escapes her.  
  
Oh god. The invincible Sea Witch is blubbering into her rice and beans, and you’re so very bad at dealing with crying people. When it was the Prince, just hugging him was better than nothing, but you’re sure as hell not going to try cuddling Undine, she’d probably turn you into a goldfish. You can’t just leave her to it, though, and not just because you need to know more about what the Orphaner did to the Prince back then. She reminds you too much of Aradia for her grief not to affect you. Hell, Aradia would know what to do, she got along with people…  
  
You reach out, and instead of patting Undine’s shoulder awkwardly like you were going to, you find yourself gripping her forearm firmly and giving it a little shake. When she meets your eyes, you say, “He still cares for you. He knows he loved you once, and he knows his memory’s fucked up, and it bothers him a lot that he can’t remember. He told me the only reason he hasn’t said anything to you is because you can’t defy him now, so it wouldn’t be fair. But he knows.”  
  
“And that’s supposed to make me feel _better_?” she snaps, but she doesn’t pull away from you.  
  
“Doesn’t it? A little, at least? He cares enough to be worried about hurting you more than he already has, even if he’s kind of a dumbass about it. He’s not a different person. He’s still your friend, he’s just… under a curse or something.”  
  
She harrumphs and moves her arm; you let her go. She’s got herself under control now. “Ask yourself, Sollux — will that be much comfort to you when you’re in my shoes? He could Take you, you have magic enough to survive the process. Or maybe he’ll just treat you like any Rebel prisoner, plunder your mind and then make an example of you.”  
  
“It hasn’t happened yet.” You slide the deciphered message toward you, skimming the list of ‘ingredients’ again. “The memory wipe takes a lot of preparation, right? We found out in time. We can warn him. Not answering when the Orphaner calls is going to get him in trouble, but —“  
  
“You think his ‘father’ doesn’t have ways to compel him?”  
  
You can hear the ironic quotes. The Prince is his own person, he’s _real_ , you honestly believe that, but that doesn’t mean he’s not as much a slave as the Taken are.  
  
“I’ll help you escape,” Undine says softly. She holds up a hand to keep you from interrupting. “If not for your own sake, Sollux, then for his. Don’t let there be another betrayal on his conscience when he has a conscience again.” You open your mouth, and she shouts you down: “Don’t you _dare_ pick this moment to become naive!”  
  
Though you couldn’t possibly explain why, that chases your horror away and brings your appetite back. You reach out with your fork to hook the rim of her plate. “Are you gonna eat this?”  
  
She throws up her arms with a frustrated little shriek and storms out.  
  
Shrugging, you pull her plate over and dig in.  
  
* * *  
  
The bath is lukewarm, and the night is cooling quickly. You wouldn’t even bother with the big pool if you didn’t have a lot of thinking to do. Sitting still makes you shiver, so you keep moving; it’s big enough to paddle around in. Your splashing covers the sound of bare feet well enough that when Undine moves into the corner of your vision you yelp and call your knives in startlement.  
  
Standing at the edge of the pool, she begins to unfasten her dress.  
  
“Um.” You scoot to the opposite corner, watching her warily. “I don’t. Er.”  
  
“Why do men think everyone wants them?” she says with a sigh. She drops the dress, and you’re treated to about three seconds of very attractive full-frontal as she steps down into the pool. Then a wash of magic punches you in the gut, and when your eyes refocus, she has the flattened face and saucer eyes of a mermaid. Her hair, still long and lush, shines a seaweedy greenish-purple in the lamplight, and the hand she splashes you with is webbed.  
  
“I can get out,” you offer, wiping bathwater out of your eyes with your wrist.  
  
“There’s no need.”  
  
“I’m cold anyway. I’ll get out.”  
  
She gives you a look that, even on that alien face, is clearly amused. “Why shouldn’t I bathe with whomever I choose? What can you possibly do to me?” Her eyes flick to the knives still in your hands. You put them hastily aside. She gives a glubbing chuckle. Bubbles drift up from her sides. “Anyway, I want to talk to you. I have to make you understand why I want you to run away. It’s not for your sake. Not for the Prince’s either. I realized that once I calmed down.”  
  
You settle onto the step-bench-thing that runs along the sides of the pool under the water. You weren’t done thinking, and you would’ve liked a bit more time alone, but she’s going to have her say now whether you’re ready or not.  
  
“It’s because,” she says, “the Orphaner’s message had nothing to do with the Condesce.”


	40. Magic's a Beach

“I don’t follow,” you say.  
  
“He mentioned Titan taking up ‘blackmail’, but nothing about being in league with the Resurrectionists. Which means it’s possible he doesn’t know.”  
  
“Or just that he doesn’t want Redglare to know. There’s no reason he should mention it.”  
  
“True, but it brings up the possibility. I’m just saying what set me onto this train of thought. Don’t interrupt.”  
  
You shut your mouth and nod for her to go on.  
  
“It’s even worse if he knows, because that would mean he doesn’t care. Either way, he’s doing nothing about it. He’s letting the Titan make trouble for the Prince, he’s letting the Resurrectionists do whatever they want — if it’s true that the Titan has the Resurrectionists building something in the Barrowlands, well, the Orphaner is supposed to be _watching_. But he’s not.”  
  
You can’t see what this has to do with warning the Prince; none of this is new to you. You prop your ankle on your knee and use the point of a knife to clean your toenails.  
  
She goes on, “The — erasure, re-Taking, whatever he does to his sons when they get too independent — might stop the Condesce from using the Titan, or it might not, but it won’t stop whatever plan he’s set in motion up there. What it _will_ do is stop the Prince from taking an interest in it. We Taken can’t disobey. He runs us on a long lead now, when he’s at his most… _himself_ … but after the erasure he’ll tighten his hold on us. There will be no one left to deal with the Resurrectionists but the Rebels. The Orphaner’s timing couldn’t be worse!” She makes an angry gesture that swats a plume of water out of the pool, blowing bubbles from her gills. “If you’re Taken or killed, Sollux, who will stop them?”  
  
You wait for a bit. She glares at you expectantly. “That’s it?” you prompt. “That’s your reason?”  
  
“Isn’t it enough? Are you really prepared to risk the Condesce returning just for the sake of, of a _dalliance_? I thought you were supposed to be intelligent. And you’re — what, thirty? You have no business acting like a teenager!”  
  
There it is again — the same little shot of confidence you got when she called you naive. She’s so wrong about your motives that it makes you more sure of what they really are. She thinks you’re refusing to consider her proposition because you’re in love with the Prince and too weak to break his heart and your own even to save the world. But you _have_ been considering her proposition, and your reasons for rejecting it have nothing to do with love.  
  
“Have you looked at a map lately?” you retort. “The Barrowlands are so far behind Imperial lines, we’d have to conquer the whole Empire to get at them, and right now it’s all we can do to free a handful of recently annexed provinces. If the Sea Lords quit squabbling and focus, we’ll lose even that. Even if we had the numbers and funding, we don’t have the time.”  
  
“If you disband and assimilate, enough of you could travel freely that you might have a chance. It would at least free the Orphaner and the Prince to take an interest in internal affairs.”  
  
“It would free the Titan to play with the Resurrectionists full-time, too. Besides, that’s not my call to make. There’s absolutely no way I could persuade the Sufferer to surrender. What should I do, go alone? I wouldn’t last a day.”  
  
“So you’re just giving up?”  
  
You snap, “I’m the one still trying! The Resurrectionists’ powderkeg blows when the rains come, that’s a matter of _months_. Nobody can do _anything_ on that kind of schedule without the Prince. I’d rather gamble on him than fold.”  
  
Her lipless mouth goes flat. Her slit nostrils flare.   
  
Trying to stare down someone with no eyelids is a doomed proposition. You look away first.  
  
“Just… think about it,” she says. “When he changes again the way I saw him change, do you still want to be here? Just promise me you’ll think about that.”  
  
“Yeah,” you concede. “Okay.” You climb out, wrap a towel around your waist, gather your things, and stalk out, leaving a drippy trail all the way up to your room.  
  
* * *  
  
You don’t have any clean clothes, and you don’t want to put the dirty ones back on, so you just get into bed naked. As soon as you’re horizontal you feel sleep creeping up on you. That’s no good; you really do need to think. You sit up, crosslegged, elbows on your knees; the breeze from the wide-open windows is cold on your damp back, that’ll keep you awake. It’s still a struggle to hammer any kind of coherent analysis out of the jumble of information cluttering your head.   
  
You feel thin and used-up. You feel like you’re running in circles. You feel like it’s been a year since you had a good night’s sleep.  
  
You make a genuine effort to consider, one more time, the possibility that Undine is right. That the erasure is inevitable, that you’re the only free agent left, that the world’s sole chance at salvation is for you to convince Karkat to throw the Rebels away on some mad infiltration against the Resurrectionists. But that’s just not going to happen. Even if Karkat agreed, no one else would. He’d just lose his command. They’d decide he wasn’t the Reborn Sufferer after all, because that’s easier to swallow than that there’s something worth giving up the Rebellion for. So basically, the only hope you’d have of succeeding would be to go to the Barrowlands by yourself and look for some way to take out a well-dug-in Resurrectionist force all on your own. That’s the kind of million-to-one, lone-hero bullshit that makes for exciting stories, but you’ve never been into that kind of fiction. You just can’t suspend your disbelief that far.  
  
Undine is no fool. But she’s not entirely sane, either. The situation you’re facing is a repeat of the worst thing that ever happened to her. Betrayed by a dear friend, her freedom and her throne stolen, her mind invaded by slithering horrors — no one could be rational about that.  
  
Are you underestimating her again?  
  
No. This time you’re not. Her stated objections don’t quite hold up, and she’s been increasingly overwrought ever since she read the message. There’s psychology going on. You don’t have time to work her around — the Orphaner could call his sons in at any moment. He could’ve done it already, you might be too late.   
  
Undine has all the leverage here. If she refuses to tell the Prince what you learned unless you agree to go…  
  
You lie down and pull the covers up. Undine’s not the only one who can send a message.  
  
* * *  
  
The dream has barely begun when Aradia arrives to stamp it solid. The printer’s attic again; the most sensible place to look for her, you suppose. She perches on the desk and swings her legs, looking at you with her head tilted.  
  
“I need your help,” you say. “I have to reach the Prince again. And I don’t know how long I have before Undine notices and stops me.” It took her a while last time, but she was busy sailing.  
  
“Things got interesting!” Aradia grins. “Let’s see if he’s asleep.”  
  
She hops off the desk and goes to the door. With her hand on the latch, she turns to put a finger to her lips. “Quiet like mice. Easier out than in, but let’s not step on anything that crunches.”  
  
You see what she means when she opens the door. You find yourself on an endless beach littered with fragile shells and broken fishing floats. Sea birds wheel above. The sense of being exposed, vulnerable, _seen_ , is overwhelming. Aradia opens a black lace parasol and tugs you into its shadow. The watched feeling abates.  
  
“Step in my footprints,” she whispers, but you don’t need to be told.  
  
Patiently, meticulously, she picks out a path on patches of bare sand where you can walk silently, sometimes gently nudging something out of the way. Every time she rolls a bit of shell or glass aside with her toe, a subtle tension all around you tightens, as if you’re inching your way through a spiderweb and every thread she moves pulls the whole web out of true.  
  
“Where are we?” you murmur.  
  
“Undine’s wards. They’re tricky when she’s had time to do them properly, but don’t worry, she hasn’t sensed us yet.”  
  
“Could anyone else do this? Get through by going carefully?”  
  
“Oh, no. We’re doing a lot more than just tiptoeing. You just don’t know how to visualize the rest of it. I’m very good at this. It’s much easier when you’re dead. Ah, there’s the way out.”  
  
It’s a wave-washed causeway, little more than a sandbar, and the footing is even trickier here. You’re so focused on where you put your feet that when you step from sand to planks, it comes as a surprise. Looking up, you find yourself once again in the printer’s attic.  
  
Aradia folds her parasol and gives you a smugly questioning smirk. She’s probably waiting for you to say something like, _But we’re right back where we started!_ You can feel you’re not, though. “We brought this with us?” you venture.  
  
“Very good! It’s a safe place, or as safe as anything can be in magic. No one can find us here unless they know exactly what they’re looking for. As soon as you step out, though, the clock starts ticking, so you’ll have to go quickly.”  
  
You pull her into a hug. She squeezes you good and hard, then shoves you off and hands you her parasol. You say, “Am I going alone, then?”  
  
“I’ll delay Undine so you have time to deliver your message. She’ll be mad when she catches you!” This amuses her.  
  
You reach for the latch, but pause. “Am I doing the right thing? Should I do what Undine wants? Have I missed something?” You feel weak for letting this formless doubt show, even to your sister, but the words tumble out anyway. “Should I leave him?”  
  
“ _Can_ you?” she grins.  
  
“I. Yes. If I had to.”  
  
“I don’t believe you, but don’t worry. I don’t know where this choice leads, but the other one’s a dead end. Now hurry up! Go!” She plants her hands on your shoulderblades and pushes, and though you hadn’t opened the door, you’re suddenly standing at the beginning of that narrow plank that crosses the writhing void. You begin to walk carefully forward.  
  
Depression comes down on you like an icy mudslide. You open the parasol. It helps a little. The tower is only a mote in the distance, and the misasma of despair that surrounds you wants you to believe it’s impossible you’ll get there before Undine catches on. The bridge is too narrow, you obviously can’t run on it, you’ll fall…   
  
Which is absolute bullshit. Magic doesn’t work that way.  
  
You look up at the parasol. Aradia gave it to you, so it’s yours now. It doesn’t have to be lace, it could be oiled silk and big enough to catch an updraft, and you can believe in an updraft, you can believe in whatever gets you to the Prince, and by damn he’s going to _be_ there, too.  
  
Gripping the idea of an umbrella with both hands, you lengthen your stride until you’re sprinting. A warm wind stirs your hair, drives the despair back. It smells of hot stone, rotting seaweed, fried food, and flowers. You can bring your home with you wherever you go — even if it no longer even exists in a geographic sense — because that’s what magic _is_ , it’s building things out of power and thought. The wind, the umbrella, even your body — you can be light as — not a feather, but just heavy enough to steer the umbrella. As light as a message in a bottle.  
  
The hot wind punches the umbrella upward, and you go with it, and it’s _easy_.  
  
You’re over the tower in a handful of heartbeats. It’s gone roofless again, and the windows are broken, but the wall is still at least higher than the Prince’s head as he stands there gawking up at you. You fold the umbrella and drop neatly beside him, wrapping the smell of your home town around him for a moment before you let it go. “That was still too literal,” you realize belatedly. “I could’ve conjured up a mirror, turned into a beam of light, and just _signaled_ myself to you.”  
  
He’s still staring. “How are you _doing_ this?” Before you can answer, he grabs you by the collar and kisses you.  
  
Even muted and symbolic as sensations are in dreamspace, it makes your knees weak. For an endless moment, you forget everything. You missed him, god, you missed him like hell. Touching him is so good it hurts.  
  
Then the moment breaks, and you remember how little time you have.  
  
Wrenching as it is to push him away, you make yourself hold him at arm’s length. “You have to come to Undine’s island,” you say quickly.  
  
“What happened, Sol?“  
  
“I broke the cipher. You have to come. Drop everything,” you urge when he looks about to protest. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you do, if your father calls you, _don’t go_.”  
  
“Okay. Okay, Sol, shh.” He reaches for your face. “I’ll come, it’s okay, just — what are you talkin’ about?”  
  
“The key is the Engineers’ Handbook. Remember that, if anything happens — do you have a copy of the cipher?”  
  
“Of course I got a copy, Sol, slow down. What are you so —“  
  
The world gives a sickening wrench, and you wake up to an impact that knocks the breath out of you.  
  



	41. Doom and Hope

You struggle free of the covers you pulled off the bed with you when you fell. In the moonlight, you can see fading wisps of black smoke sketching your path from pillow to floor. You hook an elbow on the edge of the mattress and pull yourself up enough to see Undine silhouetted in the doorway. Did she really have to knock you off the bed?  
  
“You told me,” she says tightly, “that you wouldn’t dreamwalk by accident anymore, so I have to assume you did this on purpose.”  
  
You wobble upright, wrap the sheet around your waist. “Yeah,” you admit as you search for your glasses.  
  
“You put a hole in my defenses! Do you _want_ the Titan to find us?”  
  
“We tried not to break anything…”  
  
She takes two threatening steps into the room. “ _We_? I should’ve known. Who helped you? It was Hush, wasn’t it?”  
  
There they are, on the floor, you must’ve knocked them off the table as you went over. You put them on. Not broken, fortunately. “No. My sister’s ghost. Don’t ask, god — give a guy a second to wake up, will you?”  
  
“How _dare_ you?” Her hair is starting to float around her.   
  
The bone-chilling aura of an angry Taken washes over you. It should blast away your grogginess, wake you to the sharpness of adrenaline, but you’ve been going too short on sleep for too long for even mortal fear to put an edge on you. You can only stare dully at her, rubbing at the goosebumps coming up on your arms.  
  
“You accept my hospitality, my protection, my help, you endanger my people, you make demands of me, and then you damage my wards so you can go over my head and contact the Prince directly — _you have no right!_ ”  
  
“I didn’t —“ You stop. Swallow. What are you going to do, protest that none of that was on your own account? She knows, and it doesn’t help. You wish you hadn’t mentioned Aradia. You feel so frustratingly stupid. It’s no good telling yourself she won’t harm you; that aura reaches deep into your mind and sets the most primitive part of you gibbering. Your voice shakes as you try to explain. “One of us is blinded by emotion. You think it’s me. I think it’s you. I realized you might refuse to warn him —“  
  
“Oh, you _realized_ it, did you? You _realized_ everyone is as dishonest as you are? Is that how you see me?”  
  
“I think you’ll do what you believe is necessary, yes,” you say stubbornly, making yourself meet her eyes. “I chose not to risk it.”  
  
She stands there for a minute, chin high, eyes blazing, like the queen of the raging sea she once was. You feel, for that moment, worthy of all the contempt heaped on spies by those who have the luxury of honor. But you refuse to cringe. You refuse to look away. The higher the stakes, the more necessary sneaky bastards like you become. Hating yourself won’t change that.  
  
At last, her anger drains away. She looks small without it. “When the Prince comes,” she says softly, turning to go, “I’ll ask him to take you away. You’re not welcome here anymore.”  
  
“That’s fair,” you mutter, but she’s already gone.  
  
* * *  
  
How long will it take him to get here? An hour, a day? Will he come at all? Undine wouldn’t be so angry if you hadn’t gotten through, so you know that was real, at least. You’re definitely not going to get any more sleep.  
  
Still wearing a bedsheet as a sarong, you take your dirty clothes down to the bath and scrub them until they no longer smell like fish. Then you build up the kitchen fire and hang them over chairs by the stove to dry. You take the dirty pots and plates out to the kitchen yard, scrape the scraps out for the gulls, and wash everything as best you can. Throw the wet coffee grounds under some flowering shrubs and make a fresh pot.  
  
The night stretches out forever. There’s an eyelash of a moon, a million stars, ocean without end. You haul a chair out and sit by the pump with your coffee to watch a spider spin its web among the brush. It might be the same spider you dumped out of the kettle a few hours ago. The sea-scented breeze smacks a moth into the web before the spider’s even done building it.  
  
What if Undine is right? _Stop that, Sollux, you know she’s not._ But what if she is? Say the Prince really can’t refuse when the Orphaner summons him. Couldn’t you leave then? There’s nothing to be gained by not telling him. What if he can refuse, and the Orphaner comes for him personally? But he’d definitely send you somewhere safe in that case. Unless there was no time. Unless it all came on too fast. This erasure business has happened before, the Orphaner must be anticipating the possibility that the Prince will try to avoid it. You have no idea what either of them is really capable of, magic-wise.  
  
Why are you torturing yourself with this bullshit, anyway? It’s all academic. You called him. He’ll come or he won’t.  
  
As soon as it gets light enough to distinguish sea from sky, you put on your still-damp clothes and go down to the quay. You try to occupy yourself with poking around among the rocks. When you were a kid, you could spend a whole day that way.  
  
The sun is up, the sea is blinding, and you’re sitting on the end of the dock swishing your feet in the water when you hear the Prince’s voice: “I’m here.”  
  
You lurch upright and stumble to face him. He’s standing on the quay, exhausted and worried and gorgeous, eyes locked on you as if he’s as relieved as you are. As if he, too, was terrified you’d never see each other again, and wore himself out refusing to indulge the fear.  
  
Anvil is with him; that explains why you didn’t see the carpet come in. The big Taken gives you a nod and starts up the cliff stair, deliberately leaving you and the Prince alone.  
  
Silly as it would look to run to him, you’d do it if you weren’t exhausted. The Prince takes a few steps and stops, as if he’s too busy looking at you to remember how to walk. When you reach him, you take his face in your hands, studying him, making sure of him. You touch his cheekbones, his eyebrows, his ears. He runs his fingers through your hair as if he forgot what hair feels like. His gaze flicks over your features. Lips parted, breath choppy, both of you. He's here, still himself, still yours. He’s _here_.  
  
He smiles, and as his eyes squinch wetness wells along the lower lids. You smooth a thumb along the fatigue-bruised petal-skin beneath one. His eyes are the purple-gray of snow clouds, immeasurably tired, stupid with love.  
  
"God,” he breathes. And then, hoarse and broken, " _Sol_ ," and your heart detonates.  
  
You kiss him like it's the end of the world. You cradle his skull in your hands and hunch toward him, too tense with need to rest your arms around him. He clutches at the back of your shirt, your shoulders, the nape of your neck, as if looking for a grip you can't be stolen from. When even kissing isn't close enough, your mouths smear apart and you burrow into each other's shoulders. You don’t know how long you cling to each other before your desperation abates enough to force a few words out.  
  
"I missed you so much I was afraid to think about you," you confess. Your voice sounds thick and gargly.  
  
"I talked to you," he admits in return, "an’ pretended you could hear me."  
  
"We're idiots."  
  
"We're brilliant," he retorts. "Take me to bed, Sol. Take me to bed forever an' I'll just run operations from there."  
  
You can’t, of course. That isn’t why he’s here. But just for a few minutes you pretend you can. Just a few more minutes before you make yourself unwind from around him, take his hand, and turn toward the villa and duty.  
  
Undine is waiting in the courtyard to welcome him. You can barely parse what she says. Just formalities, ‘extend my hospitality’ and ‘long journey’ and ‘better circumstances’. She leads the way to a room you never wandered into, luxurious with floor pillows and layered carpets, small carved tables and embroidered hangings. The Prince sprawls gracefully on a low divan, tugs you down beside him.  
  
“All right,” he says, “I came like you asked me to; what the hell’s goin’ on?”  
  
Hard as you try, you can’t frame an explanation. You turn your face against his shoulder and close your eyes. While you’re still rummaging for words in the sludge that seems to have replaced your brain, you hear the crinkle of paper. You pry your eyes back open to watch as Undine gives him your plaintext copy and sits across from him. Anvil, on his other side, watches him read it, waiting to find out what it was he helped you discover.  
  
“Your Highness,” Undine says, “how much do you remember of the time before I was Taken?”  
  
“Very little,” the Prince answers quietly, “and not much a that worth the trouble a thinkin’ about. And this is why, ain’t it?” He hands the paper to Anvil. “I’m guessin’ you have a idea what kinda spell he’s puttin’ together.”  
  
Undine says, “I’d think he was creating a new ‘brother’ for you if I only saw the ingredients. If he hadn’t said ‘my tools to be resharpened’. And if it hadn’t happened before.” She swallows. “Sollux told me you know you’re missing the memory of the time we were friends. But I’m not sure it was even you I was friends with, Your Highness. Perhaps you’re only a copy of the man I knew, melted down like gold and re-cast. Whatever it is the Orphaner did to my friend, he is about to do to you.”  
  
The Prince’s voice is like sand sliding on sand: “How many times has this happened?”  
  
No one answers.  
  
“Anvil.” He clears his throat. “How many times?”  
  
Anvil won’t look up from the paper. “Five, my lord, since I’ve been with you.”  
  
“Why didn’t you tell me?”  
  
“I… did. Once. You defied your father and fled. He punished… others… until you returned to be remade.”  
  
“So you think you got the right to keep me in the dark about it?”  
  
“If I did wrong, my lord, I am sorry.”  
  
The Prince shakes his head sharply. “And why was it Sol who called for me? Were you plannin’ on keepin’ it from me too, Undine?”  
  
Unlike Anvil, she meets his eyes without apology. “I delayed too long. I tried to convince Sollux to go back to the Rebels, so at least _someone_ who knows Titan’s plans would be free, and he concluded that I might refuse to tell you at all and took matters into his own hands.”  
  
“Was he wrong?”  
  
Her jaw works. You can see her clinging to her dignity; it makes her look angry, but you don’t think it’s anger. “I was only going to make another attempt to persuade him once he’d slept on it. It’s true that maybe I wouldn’t have planned to tell you if he weren’t part of the equation. I think it’s _cruel_ to warn you about something you can’t avoid.”  
  
The Prince looks between them, brows tilted with dismay. “You don’t neither a you got a speck a faith in me, do you?” He pushes you back, takes your face between his hands, demanding you meet his eyes. “An’ you, Sol? _You_ don’t think I’m doomed, do you?”  
  
“We’re all screwed if you are,” you say levelly, “so you’d fucking better not be.”

**Author's Note:**

> i've posted a [cheat sheet for the codenames here](http://jumpingjacktrash.tumblr.com/post/58947694197/a-cheat-sheet-for-the-code-names-in-the-rule-of), for those who don't feel like guessing, or want to check whether their guesses were right. :)
> 
> i wrote a side story about what really went down when the Prince was "ascertaining his brother's motives" in chapter 18: [Storm Warning](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1010694)


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